


Terra Firma: Part III of the Field of Evermore series

by Tiger Tyger (Southern_Comfort)



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-11-17 01:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 64,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11264895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Southern_Comfort/pseuds/Tiger%20Tyger
Summary: Spock and Kirk experience Spock's pon farr together, each learning what it means to be filled to overflowing with passion and rage, love and need. During this time, Spock breaks past Kirk's last refuge of mental shields and establishes an unbreakable link deep in his subconscious. While not unhappy about the link, Jim must learn what it means to have a Vulcan in his head 24/7, and Spock must learn how not to overpower his mate, to whom telepathy is still very new. While still adjusting to their new situation and new access to each other's thoughts and feelings, Jim is promoted to Director of Operations at Starfleet when his predecessor suddenly dies. Will the added pressure of such an important, responsibility-laden job cause even more problems between Jim and Spock? Will their fragile bond be able to hold up under the demands, or will it be their salvation?





	1. Chapter 1

Hazy moonlight slipped through lightning-heavy clouds, etching their edges in violent light. Not too far off, thunder rumbled in warning. The temperature gradually cooled, the acrid scent of ozone occasionally overpowering the ocean air. In the distance, a heavy rainstorm puffed up nearby skies, its threat marked against the dim light of the soon-to-be-rising sun.

His mate lay on the blue and gold coverlet of the bed, his broad back barely rising and falling with his breaths. Spock watched him, impatient, but aware that he must allow his human to rest before consummating their bond again.

He had only begun to form the final sinews of the bond, the interlocking braid of their minds strong and well-linked, but not as deeply connected as he would prefer. Perhaps it was due to the mate being human; his inability to use telepathy was undoubtedly the only reason why the life-bond had not immediately formed when he had completed himself deep inside his mate. Spock considered this; some did not choose to life-bond, preferring to survive in the event their current mate died, to take another.

But he was not one of these.

Though technically an intricate and perfect fusion of two disparate strands of genetic material, Spock's Vulcan biology had overwhelmed his Terran traits throughout his life, leaving him possessed with the nature of a violent, primitive warrior constrained within the guise of a peaceful scientist, his human half rarely in evidence. Usually, the repression caused by the Vulcan psychological and sociological model prevented the warrior from coming to the fore, but in this instance, during the _plak tow_ of _pon farr_ , it was predominant.

He looked down at his own body, dimly aware he should clean himself before touching the mate again. Rising, he went to the en-suite bathing chamber and made use of it, showering and cleaning his teeth before seeking out food. His stomach rumbled discontentedly; no doubt the mate would be hungry as well.

Putting together a healthy meal for them both, Spock knew that he was only on the edges of the worst of the _plak tow._ The fact that he was able to leave his mate for a period of time was a simple indicator of this. The calm would not last.

The human was beginning to wake when he returned. The green-gold eyes opened and his mate rolled over onto his back, his gaze widening. He sat up and quickly made his way to the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a solid thunk of fire-retardant wood.

Spock consumed his part of the meal quickly, listening as the water shower was turned on and the human bathed. He nodded in appreciation; the scent of his mate's skin was pleasurable.

The human said nothing when he returned, wrapped in a burgundy toweling robe, his hair damp and lying sleekly against his neck. Taking the tray away from the bed, he placed it on the desk to the right of the bed, took a seat and began to eat. He winced when he sat; Spock noted this and nodded. It was to be expected. The human had never been penetrated before. It was no matter; he would adapt.

He waited while his mate ate, his organ becoming hard at the scent of him, his hands beginning to tremble with the need to touch him, stroke him. . . .

 

 

Jim Kirk sat on the hard desk chair and wondered if and when his ass was going to stop throbbing. Part of it was discomfort and he'd expected that. Part of it was blatant, want-it-again-and-again-satisfaction . . . and that was the issue he was having the most problems with.

He eyed the Vulcan across the desk from him, sitting quietly but staring intently at him. He looked calm, but the darkness in Spock's gaze warned him that this man was not the gentle lover he had known for months prior to this. This was the warrior inside of Spock, and he was far more dangerous than any enemy Kirk had ever known, for he didn't just want his body--he demanded all he was, the totality of heart, mind, and soul--and he would use anything to take them and make them _his_.

He thought back to last night and squirmed slightly, feeling the medicated gel that McCoy had handed him yesterday moving around his ass. He bit his lip as the memories of what they had done together came to vivid life in his mind's eye: Spock had ridden him expertly after prepping him, and then gave him no options but to take it.

And he had loved it. Anyone within hearing would have heard him begging for more, he realized with a shamed blush coming to his face.

He'd never known any sex like it, and as he swallowed down a piece of cool melon, he readily admitted he'd been around the galaxy a few times. Granted, he hadn't allowed even Chris Pike inside him, terrified of the intensity of what Pike could make him do.

But Spock was not taking no for an answer anytime soon, if ever. And he was going to have to come to terms with it.

 _Come_ being the operative word here.

Aware that he fought a delaying action, Kirk rose with the tray and removed it to the kitchen, his naked Vulcan following only a step behind. As he finished cleaning the few dishes they had used, Spock grasped his arms and turned him, leaning down to take his mouth in a kiss that just about burnt the robe right off his body as he was pulled in against Spock's chest, his jade-tinted skin hotter than usual.

Something in him wanted, _needed_ , to fight back, and he drew away, pushing against Spock's chest. The Vulcan's head canted slightly in obvious confusion, and then that singular, arching brow rose, and his long hands grasped Jim's arms again, tighter this time, sufficient to leave bruises, and his lips took Kirk's mouth, his tongue making a pointed foray against his own, no quarter being given.

He couldn't explain why, even to himself. He had to resist this; Spock's fierce power only made that need stronger. He couldn't yield to it, even though his cock rose in anticipation, the beat of his blood causing the ache in his ass to become stronger, more intense, a counterpoint to the pressure of Spock's mouth on his.

He was dragged down the hallway, the robe stripped from his shoulders, and with a casual strength that made his mouth go dry, tossed onto the bed. Spock took a moment to jerk the soiled coverlet from beneath him, and Kirk made a dash for the door.

The growl that resounded through the room made him hesitate for only a moment, but it was sufficient for Spock to grab and spin him hard enough to bring him to his knees. The Vulcan glared down at him, his eyes fierce and dark with lust. One finger slid into Jim's mouth, opening it wide, so that his cock could thrust between his teeth without injury. The other hand held his head by the hair, a simple warning as Spock plunged deeper into his mouth, the finger withdrawing.

Like a bird brought to ground and stunned by the fall, Kirk no longer resisted. He grasped Spock's thighs like they were stone columns and opened his mouth wider, occasionally using his teeth and tongue to highlight the experience, but otherwise yielding to the long, thick mass that demanded entry. As both of Spockâ€™s hands grasped his head, he looked up to see Spock's black eyes watch him as he thrust, his hips moving fast now, jamming the ridged head into the back of his throat between breaths.

It went on for a long time, until Jim finally relaxed, his shoulders bowing, and his own cock becoming wet and hungry. He reached to grasp it, to give himself relief, but Spock growled again, his throaty utterance a warning. Jim looked up, and when their eyes met, Spock's knees began to buckle as he spent himself down Jim's throat.

Spock didn't fall, as Jim would have. He jerked his chin to the right and Kirk rose and returned to their bed, lying down on his back and waiting for whatever his Vulcan wanted. His cock waved lazily, still tired from last night. It was a surreal feeling, being so much in the control of another person, and part of him really enjoyed it. _Only because it's Spock_ , he thought, aware that there were few beings he admired as much as his bond-mate.

He lay back, watching, as Spock moved closer and then staggered. Kirk rolled away just before the heavier Vulcan sat on the bed, panting, his head bowed. After he'd gotten his breath back, Jim stood up and gestured for Spock to follow. The two men went back into the huge kitchen of the rental house, and Kirk put together some provisions: a pitcher of ice water, a fluid liter of electrolyte replacement juice, glasses, plates, a package of peanut-butter cookies (for him), dried mixed fruit, and a package of croissants. Carrying these back to the bedroom, he positioned the tray on the desk, poured Spock a glass of half-water, half-juice and then, satisfied when he reached to take it, moved to the window.

A thunderstorm was brewing, dark violet clouds overtaking the fluffier white ones that were fleeing west at a rapid pace. The sun could barely be seen as other than pale pink light, and the waves at the seashore crashed with new violence. The gulls, usually prevalent in the dawn hours, were safely tucked away beneath the nearby boardwalks and piers, ready to wait it out.

They rested for a time, perhaps an hour, before Spock turned to him again.

 

 

As the hours passed, Spock went deeper and deeper into the _plak tow_ , his desires becoming fiercer, tolerating no resistance on the human's part. The mate was clever, though; it led, teasing, coaxing, at times, preventing any injury, and the warrior could feel a great satisfaction at this. It meant he could let go, stop controlling, and he did.

 

 

The warrior was weary, but the demands of his body did not cease. The human slept at his side, his flesh damp in the comfortable heat of the room, smelling more Vulcan than Terran now.

He would need to find the energy to complete the final tie of their mutual bondage, the metaphysical fetters that locked one soul to another, producing a bond of permanent resonance and compatibility. But first, he would have to rouse the human to the heights of pleasure, for only then would his final emotional shields fall, opening sufficiently to house the battered soul of his Vulcan.

There was little to no fight left in the human now, except for slight resistance to penetration. He could wait; the warrior would need the human conscious to effectuate their _si'rina_ or completing.

In the meantime, he would rest.

 

 

Jim jerked awake just as he slid off the bed and to the floor. Spock was so physically hot, he must have been inching away in his sleep just as the Vulcan moved closer.

He glared at the carpet beneath him and slowly sat up, blowing out a deep breath, and idly wondered if he'd ever be interested in sex again. Getting onto his knees, Kirk crawled into the bathroom, ignoring the hard tile. More than anything else, he wanted some cold water, in his mouth, on his body, anything to help with the too-hot room he was in.

He lay in the full-sized tub beneath the shower heads and quietly blessed the designers of this house. Cool water rained down on him, and he gathered some up in his cupped palms to douse his thirst. As a bath, it wasn't the best one he'd ever taken, but as therapy, it worked a treat.

Finally able to stand, he toweled off some of the water, leaving the rest to dry on his skin, its evaporation helping him stay cool. His stomach growled and he slid into the kitchen to sate his hunger with anything he could find.

He looked out of the kitchen window to the ocean, watching the storm still raging without, dashing rain into the breaking surf, leaving the sand a large, oddly-patterned mess of seaweed, shells, and puddles.

Deciding a few more hours sleep would be a good idea he walked back to their bedroom, and almost chuckled. The foot of the bed was broken; Spock was lying diagonally across the mattress at a downward angle. Shaking his head against getting into that mess, Kirk moved to one of the guest bedrooms, appreciated the queen-sized bed, lowered the room temperature to a comfortable sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit and went to sleep. Spock would find him soon enough.

 

 

It roared inside him, the need, the hunger.

But the mate was not at hand. Rage brought him to his feet as his nose caught his mate's scent. He was not far, and the anger quieted.

He shivered as he made his way to the next room, feeling its chill like a slap against his dry skin. The human lay on his stomach, asleep. The warrior stroked a muscled thigh, liking his scent, the coolness of his skin drawing him like a beacon.

Turning the human over, he lay next to him, before covering him with his own body. The soft padding of his mate's muscular form soothed his own aches, but he knew he could not remain. The human was too fragile and would not be able to breathe. Rising to his hands and knees, the warrior began to taste the human, his teeth and tongue making a hot trail from his shoulder to his abdomen. Nuzzling the curls there, the warrior took the limp penis into his mouth, and gently suckled it to turgid life.

The human's gasp and the sudden tension in the thighs that cradled him advised that he had managed to wake his mate from his slumbers. He continued, his teeth occasionally drawing down the long length, stopping just below the head, nibbling at the junction where a nerve cluster rested closely beneath the skin. The human was making odd noises deep in his throat that the warrior liked hearing. It excited him, and his own penis beat a slow pulse between his legs.

He didn't allow his mate to escape the pleasure he was giving; he kept on for a time, until the sounds became less pleased. Rolling the human him over onto his chest, Spock reached for a pillow and thrust it beneath the mate's waist, tilting his hips up, leaving his organ trapped against his belly, riding the softness of it for friction.

He didn't ask for permission before laving the open portal, again liking the human's gasp and subsequent moans of pleasure. The bud was reddened but unresisting against his lips, and as he delved within with fingers and tongue, he heard the mate's sounds becoming louder.

He prepared him well, until the mate thrashed, and his cries became more intense. Sufficiently enlarged, the warrior slid the head of his penis deep within, appreciating the way the hot tunnel cushioned and pulsed around him, clinging to his own aching organ. There was pain for them both, the skin and tissues of their flesh meeting, abrading what was already sore. But the hurt stopped neither of them in their need for completion.

Sinking deeper within than he had ever before, the nub of the prostate tender and throbbing against the head of his organ, the warrior withdrew, only to go even deeper during the next thrust. The human thrashed beneath him, but he held him easily, moving slowly in an intimate dance that caused his mate to babble sounds that made no sense to him, the syllables underlining his passion at that moment.

This would be no frenzied dance as the others had been. This would be a penetration of mind and soul, flesh and blood, until his mate gave up all he was into his care, and accepted him in the same manner.

Reaching up, the warrior settled his fingers against his mate's face, easily locking their immediate thoughts together.

_Too good . . . can't . . . can't . . . so good . . . owned. . . ._

Satisfied, the warrior went further into the mate's mind, bypassing surface thoughts, until he found the deepest, darkest and most hidden of his human's soul. There would be nothing concealed between them.

 _Wait!_ the mate screamed, and immediately the walls of the human's mind moved to prevent him from progressing.

Redoubling his efforts to focus the human only on the physical, he changed his angle, re-directing the head of his penis directly onto the swollen nub. The human moaned in response, and the warrior returned to the battle of the mind. As he thrust slowly, deeply, riding the prostate until the flesh beneath him trembled, the walls fell away, and he progressed, his metaphysical body sinking within the darkness and bringing his own light.

 _Spock!_ he heard Jim cry out, on the cusp of a spine-bending orgasm. He dove within the mental cave, moving past its stone walls and through to the very soul of the man he adored. His own climax was of no importance, and his body felt terribly heavy and far away.

The sheer brilliance of Kirk's mind and soul were beyond his immediate ability to process. But then, he was only to remain a moment, long enough to lock their souls together in this light-filled place, and withdraw. To remain was too dangerous; he could easily become enmeshed within Kirk's mind.

It was much more difficult to leave than Spock would have believed. This place was the entire essence of his mate, distilled, raw. But he loved Kirk with a single-minded focus that put all previous concepts of love to shame. He fought the clinging tendrils of his own need to belong, to be one even into death, and struggled to leave the light of Kirk's being.

As he returned to the physical plane, he panted heavily, his body exhausted, mind muddy and obscure, unable to sort out everything he felt. Jim's climax and the mentally taxing formation of the _si'rina_ had left the human unconscious. Dragging himself to his feet, Spock cleaned them both before shifting them into a more comfortable position, and, finally, collapsing in exhaustion.

The need was gone.

The fires were banked.

He was free of it, but bound, forever, to his mate.

Allowing a small smile to form on his lips, he fell deeply within a light trance, intending to heal his body and focus his mind once more.

 

 

Jim had no idea what day it was, never mind what time.

He had agreed with McCoy that if he hadn't called in by the fourth evening, that he should come out to the beach house with a phaser, just in case Spock decided to kill him for intervening. While they had said it in jest, there was nothing funny about a Vulcan in his full 'fuck-or-die' mode. Of all the things that Bones could tease Spock about, this would never be one of them.

Spock lay on the messy bed, face down, snoring. His pale green body was splayed out, exhausted, twitching every so often, muscles jerking in tension and then relaxing, but he didn't wake.

Jim's ass hurt; they'd been a little too enthusiastic this last time, and as he gingerly got off the bed he noted the spotting of blood he left with a grimace. This was the first time that Spock had gone into a deep sleep, and Jim hoped that meant that the worst was over. He made his way to the shower and took full advantage of the heat and massage action of the water. He was very tired, and hoped that he'd be able to sleep for longer than the cat naps he'd taken until now.

Not bothering with clothes, the heat of the house oppressive, he gave Spock a quick bed bath, and then made up the mattress with fresh sheets around Spock's somnolent body, urging him to move when required. Handily, Spock obeyed orders just as well asleep as he did awake, and Jim was finally able to curl up next to him, and close his eyes.

He woke to find McCoy bending over him, his blue eyes wearing a worried frown around them.

"How do you feel?" the doctor asked softly, his medi-scanner whirring in his hand.

"Not too bad," Jim replied, his body feeling like it was part of the bed. "Just tired. How's Spock?"

"Dehydrated, just like you. Still imbalanced, but less so. I'd say a few more days in total, and it'll be over."

"A few more days?" Jim asked, aghast.

McCoy hurried to assure him, patting his shoulder. "No, Jim, not like it's been. The hormones we're concerned about are almost negligible now, the chemical fire he's been dealing with doused. It's more the psychological aspect to wade through."

More relieved than words could say, Kirk nodded, exhaustion dragging him down. He felt a hypo being pressed to his shoulder, and then another, before he slept.

 

 

When Spock returned to consciousness, he lay still, his mind analyzing his physical status. His body was exhausted of all material resources, and he estimated 7.3 Standard days would pass before he would return to full strength and stamina. He assessed their bond, satisfied for the first time since he had mated Kirk that it was complete. It was more complex than most due to their different biological structures, but well-built and robust, entwining delicately between the tissue layers of their brains. How it would affect them was still a question, however; Spock had not heard of a _si'rina_ being performed between those of disparate races. Indeed, bonds between Vulcans and other species were quite limited to two, in fact: their own, and his parents. How their bond acted, Spock could not say; Sarek's telepathic abilities were limited and their form of communication appeared to be speech-based.

Dismissing that thought, he turned over and viewed his bond-mate. The room was cooler than Spock preferred, but Jim appeared quite comfortable. He lay in a spread-eagle position, his arms crossed under his head in a manner that usually indicated extreme fatigue. Using the bond, he analyzed Jim's physical state. Other than residual soreness in certain areas, muscle fatigue, and the remains of emotional stress hormones, he appeared well. McCoy's hypospray had been used; medication of one form or another were circulating through his mate's bloodstream, having a beneficial effect on the healing process. Jim was dreaming of his family home in Iowa, riding a horse with Peter when the boy appeared much younger. He was relaxed and happy there; Spock left him to his dream and rose from the bed.

There was much that required meditation on his part, but the need for sustenance was a higher priority. Returning to their bedroom, he stood silently for a moment, bemused by the destruction of the previous bed they had shared. Its ramshackle appearance was indicative of what he had put his mate through and any possible humor slid from the situation. He dressed quickly in light clothing and found his way to the kitchen.

McCoy sat there, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand, more in the pot on the counter. Though Spock was not as avid a drinker of the beverage as Jim and the doctor, today he would make an exception. Different types of breads and pastries were presented upon the table, along with a healthy mixture of fruits. Without a word, Spock began to eat, continuing until the need was less urgent.

He looked at McCoy then, noting the concern writ large in the bright blue gaze, but not the worry of true alarm.

"Better?" the doctor asked, a slight smile widening his generous mouth.

"Yes," Spock agreed, drinking the coffee, appreciating the effects of its caffeine. The few remaining wisps of fog that still blunted his thoughts were quickly dissolved. "And Jim?"

"Just a little worn-out." McCoy waved a hand, to indicate he was not concerned about his friend. His gaze settled firmly upon Spock. "I know what my scans tell me, but how do you _feel_?"

The added emphasis on the word almost made Spock smile. "Weary. Relieved. Saddened." He frowned and then abruptly blurted, "Cluttered."

McCoy chuckled. "I'm sure there's going to be a lot of meditation in your future, Spock, to make that computer-like mind of yours livable again. But there's something I have to tell you that I think you will appreciate."

"And that is?"

"You didn't hurt Jim. Well, aside from some residual irritation and soreness, at least. No serious tissue tears, no broken bones, no real damage."

Though he had already known the extent of Kirk's injuries, Spock was once more reassured that he had done no vital damage to his bond-mate. It could easily have been different. He closed his eyes for a long moment.

"I'm here as your doctor, Spock," McCoy said, his voice low. "But I'm also here as your friend and psychiatrist. You know how this works. You talk, and I just listen. I don't comment unless you want me to."

The Vulcan nodded. "I am not prepared at this timeâ€”"

"That's the whole point, you know," McCoy said, one finger pointing down onto the polished marble of the table in emphasis.

"It is too soon. Coherent thought . . . is not . . . as simple as it should be."

McCoy's gaze was sharp, evaluating his words and their meaning. He finally nodded. "All right. But you won't go back to duty until we have a little _tete-a-tete_ , you and I."

"Understood."

"Good."

They sipped their coffee in companionable silence.

 

 

Jim Kirk woke with a smile. He'd been dreaming of home . . . his mom and Peter. The horses and apple orchards; he needed to call them and see how everyone was. His head throbbed, feeling like someone had opened it and put something inside too large for his skull to contain. He sat on the edge of the bed and stretched lightly, relaxing the muscles of his neck, and debating whether he should just go back to sleep again. As much as that appealed, his bladder was having a vivid conversation with his stomach, both demanding action. Feeling all of a hundred years old, he shuffled to the bathroom and relieved one complaint, taking the time to brush his teeth and comb his hair into some semblance of order. The fact that Spock wasn't with him, and the lack of urgency within the bond itself, gave him hope that the hardest part of this was over, as Bones had said.

Before putting on a pair of pants he looked down at his relaxed cock. It was the first morning he could remember not having an erection, barring sickness or injury, since puberty had hit him _hard_ between the thighs at twelve. Being able to pee without fighting with it was deeply appreciated today; he didn't have the strength required to wallop an average-sized housefly.

Pulling on a pair of white cotton pants and a light green shirt that he didn't bother to button, he ambled out to the kitchen. He was slow, all the muscles in his legs complaining about the work they'd been doing. Between his head and his ass, he didn't know which hurt worse, and this was after Bones had been shooting him full of meds. Following the scent of coffee, he finally made it to his destination. Wanting coffee, but unwilling to walk across the long area to get it, he decided to use charm. "Bones, please?" he asked, indicating the coffee carafe, as he settled gingerly at the end of the table.

The doctor gave him a decidedly sympathetic smile and got up to pour a cup of the hot stuff. Kirk drank it down, barely noticing the heat.

Bones chuckled and went to get the pot. "Go a little slower there, Jim. All that caffeine'll keep you awake."

" _Nothing_ is going to keep me awake," he replied, gazing at breakfast speculatively, all the while checking on Spock through the corner of his eye. "Not unless I'm needed?" he asked gently, softly, in Spock's direction, well aware that his Vulcan's superior hearing would pick it up.

"While you are always wanted, my _th'y'la_ , you are no longer needed," Spock replied, a light blush falling across his cheeks.

Bones pretended to ignore them, rummaging around in the kitchen, before muttering, "Going for a walk on the beach."

Kirk appreciated his making himself scarce; he wanted some time with Spock before they had to face the world. Even McCoy, as close as he was to them, was a reminder that they were not alone in their cocoon. "Are you all right?"

"I require extended meditation, but other than that aspect I appear to be in good health."

He gave his bond-mate a wry glance. "Could you be a little more specific?"

Spock closed his eyes. "I am not yet . . . myself. I feel . . . strange . . . not wishing to do anything more than focus on what has happened between us."

"Bones told you, didnâ€™t he? You didn't hurt me; I'm okay. Other than feeling like I fought with a _yagghorth_ and it won." He grinned and began to put some cream cheese on a sesame-seed bagel. And ignoring the constant battle with his waistline today, he topped the cream cheese with grape jelly and stuffed a piece into his mouth.

"It was very odd. I was myself, and yet I was not."

Jim chuckled and ate more. "Now that I can look back on it, I remember realizing that "no, this person before me is not my Spock." And then you would touch me, and I couldn't think anymore." He sent his mate a teasing smile and grasped his hand. "I had no idea what a true sensualist you are."

Spock blinked slowly at him, and though his body wouldn't remotely consider it Kirk wanted to fuck him right then and there on the kitchen table. "You drive me wild. Even now, when I'm so tired I can barely walk." He swallowed and murmured, "Do you have any idea of the heights you propelled me to? Sometimes the way up was so fierce I'd hold onto you, just so I'd know I couldnâ€™t really fall. And then when I finally did come down, shaking like I had a fever, you would stroke me, kiss me, let me know I wasn't alone." He shook his head. "I never knew it could be like this."

"This?"

"Safe. Secure. Comfortable. Familiar, yet exciting. Alarming and erotic in the same moment. And the love we share is so deep, honest and so _real_ , . . .Â  I guess I don't really have the words for it, after all."

Spock stroked Kirk's mind gently. _Your words are fine. They touch me_

A surging wave of dizziness struck them both at the same moment. "You should rest," Spock told him, his face a startling shade of jade.

"And you," Jim replied. Leaving the table, they latched onto one another to stay upright and headed back to their bed. It wasn't in bad shape, not that Jim would have cared if it had been sagging down the middle. He wanted to go back to sleep, and the floor would do for that.

"You will not sleep on the floor," Spock insisted, grasping Jim with hard fingers and preventing his slide from landing him there. He pushed him instead, and he landed on the bed with a _whuff_ of downy soft bedding, and the hardness of his Vulcan pressing into him for a moment before Spock pulled away and lay at his side.

There was a moment's thought for Spock's comfort, and then he plummeted into the darkness of exhaustion, a rainbow of colors behind his eyelids fading into night.

 

 

"I guess we both realized at that moment the threat was finally over," Kirk mused, staring up at the ceiling of their bedroom almost a dozen hours later. "That it was okay to let go." He gave his lover a wry smile. "I couldn't have stayed awake if there were Klingons breaking down the door. Have you slept all this time, too?"

"Yes. I woke to reassure McCoy that we were not dead, but other than that, I slept."

"Did you dream?"

"Vulcans do not ordinarily dream, but since I have been bonded to you there have been . . . unusual memories after sleep that I cannot otherwise explain."

"Good memories?"

"Not always. Some of them are yours."

Kirk sat up and looked at him. "You're having _my_ dreams?" He was aghast, his mouth hanging open. While sex dreams weren't unusual for him and they usually focused on Spock now, still, they wereâ€” _private_.

"Occasionally. Does that disturb you?"

Kirk thought about that and couldn't respond with a quick answer, or one that would even be polite. He squashed down irrational anger. "I think I have some meditating of my own to do."

"Hmm." Spock didnâ€™t reply to his comment, changing the subject maladroitly. "I am hungry."

He nearly smiled at the Vulcan's attempt, and put the issue aside. Feeling physically better than he had in days, Kirk inched off the bed. Ignoring the complaints of his legs, he went to the bathroom while Spock headed for the kitchen.

When he entered the open room, Spock handed Jim a small flimsiplast. "From McCoy."

Hey, sleepyheads,

Gone to bed, too much sun. Left a meal in the cooler.

Don't stay up too late. Jim, you snore.

J Bones

 

Jim gave a small grunt and tossed it in the dispos-all before he tore into the prepared meal. Lots of protein for them both, he noticed, but it didn't matter. He wolfed it down, followed by what felt like a gallon of water.

"I think I should slosh," he joked when he finally sat back. "Didn't realize I was that thirsty."

Spock nodded. "We should walk."

Jim agreed. "A moonlit stroll would be great." They cleaned the kitchen and tossed the trash, before ambling out onto the deck and down to the sand. Spock headed back to get a sweater, apparently feeling the cool breeze off the bay. The gritty sand felt good beneath Kirk's bare feet, though his legs and back complained strenuously. After a while, it didn't hurt so much.

The previous storm had driven off any clouds and the nearly-full moon reflected light onto the water. The sky wasn't so much black out here, more of a reflective dark blue, distant stars twinkling brightly in the autumn sky. They moved closer to the surf, Kirk walking in it, his pants dragging in the water, while Spock stayed dry on the sand. Somewhere along the way, they grasped hands, much more comfortable with touch than they had ever been before.

Kirk chuckled and Spock glanced at him. "What is it?"

"I'm happy. I mean, really . . . happy."

They stopped strolling and Spock shifted slightly, his hands coming to rest on Kirk's hips. "As am I," he admitted softly, his voice deeper than the norm. "This is the time we must remember, Jim, not the fear or the worry. It is the peace afterwards. Seyjan told me it was possible, but I did not believe him, could not foresee any result that would not presage disaster."

Spock's face was a charcoal etching of light and shadows, his dark, liquid eyes covered in stars. Kirk smiled and brushed his fingers against his mate's chest, stroking the dark hair there. "You know I don't allow disaster to stop me, Spock. We would have found a way. That's what we do, who we are."

"That is who _you_ are," Spock replied huskily, coming closer and taking Kirk into his arms. "I am not as confident."

Kirk smiled. "Oh ye of little faith." His voice cracked slightly, belying the lightness of the words. He pulled away and continued on down the beach, not willing to deal with the sudden butterflies in his stomach. He just wanted a nice walk down a long beach with his love. The rest, the analysis and dissection, could wait until tomorrow or the day after.

"We will discuss it? What is bothering you?"

Kirk closed his eyes. "Yes. But not now." He could feel Spock's concern, and repeated, "Not now."

"As you wish."

They walked further, but the specialness of the moment had passed. A wisp of cloud had strayed over the surface of their moon, and Jim turned back, needing a shower before bed. He had a moment's thought for Fleet, and then let it go. He was sure Stearns and Nogura would have it all in hand. He was just a deputy, a rear admiral. What could happen in a few days?


	2. Chapter 2

The next day Spock was meditating in the small library at the front of the house, while Jim was on the patio, attempting to do the same, though his meditations were less cerebral, and more physical. He was pacing and thinking, McCoy watching him from a deck chair, but saying nothing.

_Okay, Jim, you have to come to terms with this. Spock went through his pon farr and screwed you stupid. The bond feels more . . . far-reaching than before, but there's no proof it is unless you bring it up. I doubt Spock will mention it._

_First point, Spock is deep in your head, unfathomably so. And while initially that was okay, it feels a little intrusive sometimes, like when he's dreaming your dreams. Granted, you don't always remember them, but he will. You need to let him know you have a little trouble with that. Carefully._

_Secondly, he fucked you. How do you feel about that? Any masculine insecurity you need to know about before you going back to playing admiral? Any leftover macho bullshit from having a Vulcan cock up your ass?_

Kirk waited. There didn't seem to be any complaints about that. It was Spock, after all. He loved his half-Human hobgoblin. His face stretched into a smile. Damned right he did.

_What about the fact that there wasn't a blessed thing you could do about it? And that aspect was . . . great? Fabulous? Hot? The best sex you've ever had? That Spock taking you over, dominating you, really whacked your buttons into the FUCK YES position?_

_Oh._

_That._

Kirk swallowed. _Yep, that was a problem._

No, not so much a problem as a weakness, he realized. Anyone else who could dominate him emotionally like that was a critical situation in the making. Though he argued that it was only during sex, could he be sure, adamantine-clad certain of that point?

Kirk knew that his major fault, besides being 'too arrogant to live,' as McCoy sometimes said, was that the blamed himself deeply when things went wrong. And more than anything, he didn't want to screw this up. _So if he was . . . quiet . . . about it, then they could just go on the way they were._

_Right?_

He could feel McCoy's eyes on him.

"Whatever you're thinking right now, that's a bad idea," the doctor intoned quietly, but seriously, his gaze fierce. "I can see it in your eyes. Get it out; put it on the table, and talk about it. Now."

"No," Jim replied, resisting the order. "It's private."

The doctor sighed and slapped a hand down on his leg. "Jim, in the past few days there isn't an inch of you that I haven't seen up close and personal," he snorted. "And I really do mean that. More importantly, I know how your mind works." He leaned forward. "What is it that's bothering you? Was it something Spock said . . . did . . . or something you did?"

Kirk would have sworn that he didnâ€™t even blink, but McCoy snapped his fingers. "Ah, that's it. It had to do with you."

"Stop reading my face," Kirk grumbled. "It's bad enough I don't have a secret thought in my head; I don't need you going on clues my body gives you."

McCoy chuckled softly, his smile understanding. "Come on, Jim. Let it out. That's why I'm here and we're not in some Sickbay having this conversation, so that you'll both talk more freely. Tell me what's going on."

Quickly deciding he would be willing to discuss one problem, but not the other issue, he said, "He knows my dreams."

McCoy said nothing, only gestured for Kirk to continue.

"What, that's not enough?"

The doctor was silent, his fingers steepled, pointedly waiting.

"Tough room," Jim weakly joked. "I don't know why it's bothering me. It's just I'd like a little privacy now and then. I didn't expect this to turn into the "Kirk vid show" twenty-four, seven."

"You're used to being the center of attention. You like it. Given the type of leader you are, it's an intrinsic aspect of your command style. Beyond that, Spock has watched you like his favorite vid since the day he met you. You know that. He was fascinated by you from that first moment and it never diminished. If anything, it's even stronger." McCoy looked at his face and commented, "Worried you'll lose your mystique?"

Kirk considered that. "Maybe. What if he . . . sees the real me? I'm human. I can be violent and brutal, petty and vindictive."

"And you think he hasn't seen those sides of you, and still loves you? He has and he does; just as you have seen it in him, first-hand, and love him anyway." The doctor hesitated, then continued, "You know, I've often wondered whether _pon farr_ was not so much a biological mechanism, but more a way of dealing with the illogical parts of Vulcans that they didn't want anyone to see. To even the scales maybe; both the men and women would be at a distinct disadvantage for five days every seven years--the ugly would come out whether they wanted it to or not. There wasn't lovely perfection during those days, just primitiveness in each other that they had to come to terms with, together." He shrugged. "Just a thought."

"But I'm human. My ugly is really--"

"Not as bad as a male who would _dismember_ anyone who touched his mate. Or obliterate his entire species to retain her. Or kill her so that she wouldn't take another. Or--"

He raised his hand. "I get the point. But we did, and sometimes still do, things like that."

"Yes, Jim, I know. We're working on controlling our murderous instincts. But Vulcans would do them _today_ without the shield, the sword of logic and punishing ritual. And it is a shield, Jim. It protects them from their own baser instincts, shunts them aside so rationality can come to the fore. It's not easy for them, or simple. The complexity of their society attests to that. And here we are, off on a tangent, damn it." McCoy growled, disgust in his tone. "Let's get back to the issue. Spock's in your dreams. What's he going to find out?"

Kirk almost squirmed. "You know what dreams are like. Half-formed glimpses of desires, fears, patched memories . . . he won't understand what he sees. Vulcans don't dream."

"So talk to him about it. Explain your concerns. They're valid, understandable, and realistic."

The admiral nodded. "Guess so.

McCoy sighed again. "Jim, no one said this was going to be a bump-free ride. But let me ask you: Is it worth it?"

He didn't hesitate. "Absolutely. I wouldn't want to exist without him."

McCoy gave him a brilliant smile. "Okay, then. Session's over. Go take a swim."

As much as the real subject hadn't been addressed, Kirk did feel better, lighter. "Race you!" he exclaimed, out of his chair and on the patio steps before McCoy could even rise.

"Cheat!" the doctor bellowed, following him across the sand and into the surf.

 

 

Spock did not leave his meditations until early evening had fallen. As the room came into focus around him, he smiled softly in the near-silence, only the sounds of McCoy's slow breathing as he slept and the susurration of the sea intruding on the tranquility around him.

For the first time in months, Jim's mind was closed to him. He canted his head to the side in confusion and a little annoyance, before admitting that they had been too interlaced of late, that some distance would be appreciated by them both. Jim did not rest on the strength of their bond as much as Spock did, and did not require its touch either. Not being telepathic from birth, his mate was only slowly learning his way around their linkage, creeping almost, hesitant here in a manner as he was nowhere else, his boldness strangely absent.

Not liking the silence between them, but aware that it was necessary for his mate's continued mental health, he rose, stretched, and then went in search of him.

There was food on the table, and he took a croissant as he moved outward, noting McCoy resting on a lawn chair, his legs spread out before him, a drink in a holder by his hand. He appeared suddenly careworn, and Spock realized he had been quite worried about them both. Leaving him to peaceful sleep, he stepped onto the cold sand and out to where Jim sat beside a huge, oddly-shaped, castle-like structure, made of the very-same sand.

Brushing the crystalline surface to smoothness, he sat down next to his mate. Jim smiled softly. "Thought it would be a good idea to let him sleep. He's beat."

Spock understood the vernacular to mean McCoy was weary, and nodded in agreement.

"There are a few items we should discuss, Spock," Jim murmured, taking his hand within his own and turning to face him. Kirk wore only the ubiquitous bathing suit, slung low on strong hips, and a white shirt, unbuttoned. To Spock, he was beautiful, his body lean and tanned from the sun, his hair lightened to a red-blonde, eyes bright and twinkling in a relaxed face.

"Indeed," was his only reply, quietly enjoying the view.

Jim grinned. "Seriously."

"Please begin," he answered, not ceasing his reconnaissance of his mate's form.

Jim chuckled. "I can't. Not while you're looking at me like something you want to feast on."

"Then I will regretfully desist." He began to eat the bread delicately, listening as Jim haltingly started to explain his thoughts. _Which would not have been necessary if he would open his side of the link and would be much faster._

It was obvious that the issue of Jim's dreams and Spock's possible interpretation of them disturbed his mate. He considered it when Kirk wound down, wondering what was behind the words that the Human had not said. As much as Jim was being honest with him, (and he had no doubt that he was), this was not the foremost problem they faced together. Jim had difficulty with intimacy. It was, Spock believed, the reason why he had gone through so many lovers during his life, with only few enduring relationships. He stored that thought away, to be considered later.

"If you wish it, I will not access your dream states while you sleep. But as for my receipt of your dreams and nightmares, there is little I can do."

Jim shrugged. "Close the link at night."

Spock stared at him and tossed the rest of the bread to the waiting birds, his heartbeat a sudden, staccato rap in his side. "I admit that thought had not occurred to me."

Jim grimaced. "I've stepped on some sort of taboo, haven't I? I can see it in your face."

The Vulcan hesitated and then nodded. "While we are the first non-Vulcans to have attained a bond of this depth, I understand that you perceive it as being somewhat of an invasion of your privacy." He wondered if his expression gave away the shock he felt. To his people, this ability to share the deepest thoughts and feelings was a gift, one that only the most resonant couples could ever hope for. Analyzing the situation, Spock believed it revolved around Jim's fear of losing himself within the bond, and as his mate, it was imperative that Spock listen and acknowledge his fears, adapting the bond to them.

"Spock, I know when you're talking just to give that lightning-fast brain of yours time to work."

He frowned. "I mean to say that we must adapt the link to what we both require from it. And each other. Tell me what you want it to be, and we shall make it so."

Jim bit his lip and maneuvered himself until he was sitting on Spock's lap. The position was not uncomfortable, but left him no room to avoid the sharp eyes that gazed into his own, eyes that had learned to read him long before there had been a bond.

"No. We're not going to be like that. I am not going to take, and take, and not give back. We have to find a comfortable compromise or it all means _nothing,_ " he said fiercely. "Tell me what you need."

"Only you," was his helpless reply.

Jim's kiss was water to his parched lips and he was satisfied just to take his mouth and know how much he was loved. When Jim pulled back, he asked again, "Tell me?"

Spock sighed, but there was no escaping the ardent whisper. "I need . . . to wake with you; to touch your mind and know your thoughts, your hopes and fears; to give you surcease when you are in pain; aid you when in danger or difficulty; love your body and your mind equally; rest in your heart when I am hurt; to watch you sleep at night; to know without any doubt that I am the only one who may do so." He hesitated, his voice almost lost in the tightness of his throat. "Do I ask for too much, _th'y'la_?"

A lone tear streaked down his beloved's face, but his expression was resolute. "May I ask the same of you?"

"There is no need to ask. It is given, all that I am, freely and without reservation."

Another tear joined the first on Jim's face, and he looked up at the sky overhead, night having truly fallen while they spoke here.

"As do I, for as long as the stars may shine."

"That is not enough time for me," Spock admitted softly. "I would have you always."

Jim's hug was tight, and Spock reveled in its strength. "I love you."

"And I you."

"I think we just got married."

Spock grunted a chuckle. "And who was our ecclesiast?"

Jim smiled and brushed away his tears. "You don't believe in a god, do you? Any god."

"I agree with Einstein's opinion," he replied, kissing Jim's lips, his face, his eyes. "'Superior reasoning power . . . revealed in the incomprehensible universe.'"

"I like Albo's concept better: 'That which has no definition.' Whatever, or whomever, there's no getting out of this now," Jim teased, his eyes dark but satisfied. It was, as if, in some way, Kirk did not believe they were one until this very moment, when these simple and natural words had been spoken. _How very odd._

_How very Human_ , Jim's mind-voice said, and a tension Spock had not been aware of eased in his neck. _You have to tell me, you know. When I pull away from you. You can't let me get away with it._

_You need some distance occasionally. I am aware of that._

_Granted. Just don't let it go on too long. We may fight about it, but that's better than silence._

_Agreed._ Spock took in his lover's pleased face. _And what of the other?_

To his credit, Kirk didn't pretend not to understand the question. "I'm not ready yet," he replied. "I don't know when I will be. But it won't be tonight."

His voice was flat, and Spock knew obstinacy when he heard it. "It worries me, Jim, that my making love to you in this fashion has these results."

If Jim had turned into a _sehlat_ , he couldn't have been more surprised by his mate's response. It was as though he had unchained a fearsome animal. He jumped to his feet and stared down at him, his eyes ablaze in his tanned face. "These results?" Kirk snapped, the sound no doubt carrying down the beach. "I just about broke my back in orgasms so intense I thought I would die! My ass hurts and throbs, wanting nothing more than for you to fill it whenever I hear your voice go low." His voice rose to a snarl. "And damn it, I want it over and over . . . until there's nothing between us but air and sweat! I'd give my soul to be owned like that again! And I'm scared of it, Spock, scared so deep down that I never thought I'd know that kind of fear. But you want to know what horrifies me? That if someone else touched me like that, I wouldn't crawl and beg for it just the same as I do for you!"

_"Kaidiith!"_ Spock growled and surged to his feet, his hands hard on Kirk's arms as he jerked him close. "No one can touch you the way I can. No one can reach into your mind and caress the nerve centers of your body, accentuate your responses, stoke them into a crescendo that breaks like a wave over your skin. There is nothing to fear from anyone else for you _cannot_ respond to another in this manner." He stood straight and looked deeply into Jim's astonished yet still angry gaze. "If there is to be a master of your soul, James Kirk, it will be I," he snarled, suddenly furious, "and no one else. What more must I do to claim you? Tell me, and I will do it!"

Jim turned away from him, wrenching his body from his grasp. They stood there, trembling from the emotions they called forth in each other, while the stars spun patiently overhead, lending light that had been travelling from a star longer than this Earth had been a planet.

"Promise me," Jim finally whispered, in a voice gone raw with pain. "Swear to me that no one else. . . ."

"If my words will please you, then I will say them again. No one can reach into you as I do. No one can break through the walls of your control as I can. The response you have to me is intrinsic to us alone. And I would kill anyone who attempted it," he whispered savagely. "I would rend them to the smallest particles, leave their still-breathing bodies for the fire-wolves of Aren to fight over, torture them to within a hair's breadth of life, then bring them back and begin again . . . and only for the insult of touching you."

They stood there for a long time, barely breathing, uncertain whether another word or movement would tip them over the edge into violence. Finally, Kirk asked, "Do you think your father has these kinds of fights with your mother?"

Spock stepped closer and reached out a hand, still not touching. "Our residence has rung with their angry voices more times that I choose to remember. I soon learned that it was a precursor to coitus and let them be."

Jim gave a watery chuckle and Spock could feel his emotional and physical exhaustion through the bond. "Come, _th'y'la_. My arms await." His voice rang with the order, and idly, he wondered if Jim would obey, here in this private place.

Kirk slid into him hard, with no trace of his former anger present. He clung as tightly as he had earlier that evening. "Whenever someone looks on me with envy, Spock, remember this," he urged. "I'm just as much an ass as the next guy."

"You are mine, ass and all."

Jim laughed against him, as he had intended. "You are determined to provoke me to rage, though."

"Oh, god, I didn't even think about that," Kirk groaned, pulling back a little and looking at him. "Are you all right? Should I get Bones?"

"No. I am well. Apparently, I am becoming more accustomed to anger, perhaps due to the fires of _pon farr_." He sighed. "But I would appreciate going to bed now. I am in need of silent reflection near you."

As they headed back to the house, Jim looked up and grimaced.

The doctor stood on the patio, his arms akimbo, a steely expression of determination on his face. Before he turned away, no doubt to find his own bed, he sternly called out, "I'll talk to you both in the morning."

"That sounds ominous," Jim muttered.

"You did not--"

"Hell, no," Jim broke in. "I'd rather stick my hand in fire than talk about this. I had trouble enough with you. Oh, and by the way, sneaky way to push me into it."

Spock did not reply to that. He had used Jim's own subterfuge against him. "Unfortunately, he is aware of the situation now."

"You think he heard us?"

Spock pushed down a smile. "If he did not, then an auditory response test is required in his immediate future. We do not fight quietly."

"Damn. I don't even want to think about the session I'm having with him tomorrow."

"Nor I. But even though we vociferously deny the fact, it will be beneficial."

"Like having an aching tooth pulled. Without anesthetic."

Having not had a tooth pulled or any dental work ever required, Spock could not relate except through the concept of his mate's obvious discomfort at the idea. "Indeed."

That evening, they did not immediately sleep. Jim went to take a shower, and Spock followed, oddly needing to wash away any physical contamination from his anger. Pheromones were powerful chemicals, and Jim often reacted to his. Now would not the time to mention that, but he would in future.

They came together on the bed, curling close, face to face. Jim accepted his petting without comment, smiling when he tickled, and relaxed softly into his caress.

"Tell me something I don't know about you," Jim murmured, his eyes soft and very green in the low light.

"Do you not know everything by now?"

"Not hardly."

"Indeed." He hesitated only a moment before speaking. "I offered to financially assist your family with Peter's tuition while we were in Iowa. Your mother agreed."

Spock could almost feel the outraged pride come over his mate. And then, it dissipated, faded without result. "He can go to any school we can afford then."

"You are not upset?"

"We're married, Spock. What's mine is yours, and what's yours . . . blah, blah, blah. I don't have much, but what I do, you can have. Even my debts."

Surprised once more by this mercurial man, he asked, "And you? Tell me something I do not yet know."

Jim blew out a breath. "Let's see. Something fun, or something sad?"

"I believe we have had all the drama we can comfortably assimilate for one evening."

Jim chuckled. " _Uh-huh_. Okay. I'm a natural athlete; have been since I was a baby and tried to swing out of my cradle like a chimp. But I can't bowl worth a damn. I've tried; I have enough eye-hand coordination to shoot a phaser on the run, but can't align a ball with a bunch of pins. There you have it; my sorry secret."

It was more Jim's tone than his "secret" that made Spock smile. "Truly shameful." He thought and said dryly, "When I was twelve, I was accosted by an adult female Orion who wished to buy and subsequently marry me."

Jim burst into laughter. "Oh my god, Sarek must have blown a circuit! What did your mother say?"

"That she had good taste. And that she couldn't afford me."

Jim convulsed, his laughter rolling across the walls. "I love that woman. She's sharp as a diamond."

"Her love of language has often been used to others' detriment."

"I've been on the harsh side of her tongue once or twice. She has a fine way of cutting people to ribbons, all with a sweet smile on her face."

"She does indeed." It was said with no small amount of pride. Amanda was not one to suffer silently.

"Okay, my turn. I once propositioned, while drunk, mind you . . . wait for it . . . Nogura's _wife_."

Spock's mouth opened for a moment, imagining the Fleet Commander's reaction to such impropriety. "And you lived to tell the tale?"

"Yes, but only because Tasha was flattered by my imbecilic adoration. She protected me. I still don't believe Chiro knows it happened."

"I have met Tasha Nogura. A more beautiful woman I believe I have yet to see. But your taste in women always has been superlative."

"Don't think Nogura would look at it that way, but yes, I guess so."

The rest of the next hour was spent in such pleasant reminiscences, and when they finally moved to sleep, the anger of earlier was eclipsed by happier memories.

 

 

Bones was coldly annoyed with him the next day, but he had the sense to realize that Jim wasn't being stubborn to no purpose. He really had trouble discussing it. It was only because Spock had made him blindingly furious that he had said what he had last night.

As usual, McCoy dragged it out of him, using equal parts commonsense, bull-headedness, and humor. Two hours later, Jim was exhausted, and escaped from the patio to the sand.

"All right, Jim," the doctor finally said, following him and walking alongside. "This isn't something that one discussion or two is going to help. Only time and a deeper understanding of your concerns will do that. But try not to blow up the Vulcan in the process, would you? Please, for my sake? I don't want to have to bury either of you."

Jim sighed and raised a hand to fend off the verbal blow. "Understood, Doctor." He gave a wry, lopsided smile. "Most of the time I have a pretty good handle on my temper, but sometimes. . . ."

As they walked along the same beach where he and Spock had fought the night before, he brushed a bare foot over the disturbed sand. "He swears he's the only one that makes me crave it so, but I'm worried that it's not true."

"If your self-control was so poor, Jim, you wouldn't have made it into the Academy, and certainly never become captain of a starship." McCoy grimaced. "Making admiral was political, but again, it wouldn't have happened if you . . . availed yourself of every opportunity," the doctor reminded with a comic smile. "We both know you had more invitations than you ever took advantage of, opportunities of every sort. I think you are the only man I know who was asked to join more than three group marriages, and who turned them all down."

Jim shrugged. "Like you wouldn't have?"

McCoy raised a hand. "We're not talking about me, admiral, sir. You are the subject of conversation at the moment."

Jim bent down and picked a shell off the sand, examining it minutely. "You know that group marriage wouldn't work for me. I'm not likely to stay ashore, and I tend to focus intensely on one person at a time. Maybe in my twenties," he said, tossing the shell back into the ocean. "No, not even then. I was completely involved in my career, and my affairs were passionate and short-lived."

"Except for Carole," McCoy said softly.

Jim nodded, looking out over the water, a pang of remembered pain going off in his chest. "Yes, except for Carole Marcus. I thought we were going to make it. But the same nature that made me love her, made it impossible for her to live for my career instead of her own."

"Do you still keep in touch?"

"No, that fell off a while ago. It was just too painful to continue. When last I heard, she was blissfully happy and hip-deep in some advanced form of planetary generative technology, a classified project so hush-hush that until I made admiral I couldn't even find it."

"She is brilliant," McCoy acknowledged.

"She is. It wouldn't have been fair to ask her to wait until I made my career to start her own. We both recognized that she would have become viciously resentful; and I only had to look at what I wanted from my life to know that I couldn't ask her to hesitate to further her studies."

"No difficulties like that with Spock."

Jim smiled. "No, thank the stars. If anything, I may have to push him to reach his true potential."

"We've discussed that before. It will only become more difficult now; he won't want to be separated from you, Jim."

"I know. If anything, he's become more stubborn over the years."

McCoy chuckled. "He'd say it was logical. That he has had to become more obdurate to deal with the humans he's surrounded by."

Kirk laughed. "And we've become more logical. Wonder if it's a Vulcan social model in response to our illogic; a method of teaching us."

"Baby steps." McCoy's voice was so arid, Jim laughed again.

"Exactly."

He had a sudden lowering sensation before Spock's mental voice intruded. _Admiral?_

Not the more casual 'Jim.' _Here._

_Admiral Nogura is on the line. He insisted on waiting rather than have you return the call._

Kirk closed his eyes, shifting himself back into command mode. "Think our vacation's over, Bones. Nogura's on the horn." The two men broke into a run, Jim making it to the house three lengths before the doctor. By the time he arrived, he was completely prepared for whatever they would confront inside.

Coming to stand next to Spock, he straightened his shirt and stepped in front of the vid. "Kirk here."

Nogura's face was visibly aged. "I'm sorry to interrupt what is undoubtedly a necessary break, Jim, but I need you back here." A narrow black band had been placed over the command insignia on his left chest.

"What's happened, sir?"

"Admiral Stearns has died, Jim."

Kirk felt his mouth fall open for a moment as the impact of what Nogura was saying was absorbed.

And just in case he wasn't certain, Nogura continued, his voice low and very intense, "You are now Director of Operations, Star Fleet."

There was silence on both ends for a long, strained moment of complete surprise. And then training responded for him, while his mind reeled with the implications. "Aye, sir."

As if his easy compliance had drained ten years off of him, Nogura's expression lightened remarkably quickly. "I'm sorry about this, Jim, in more ways that I can possibly say. Stephen had been a friend of mine for many years, and I had hoped he would live a while longer. But my hopes are dashed, and your presence here is urgently required."

"Understood, admiral. I'll return immediately."

The dark eyes turned to McCoy, who didn't flinch under their ferocity. "You look rested, Jim, but considering the doctor's presence, I have to ask: Are you fit to return to duty?"

Bones stepped up without hesitation. "He is. Captain Spock requires a few days more for peak health, but I am certain he will wish to return to duty as well."

"Very well. Report to me, Jim, when you arrive."

"Aye, sir."

"Nogura out."

Jim stared at the blank screen for a few moments, mentally reviewing the situation and swiftly preparing himself for the enormous task that lay ahead. He felt his friends' eyes upon him, waiting. He straightened his back. "Gentlemen, let's pack."

 

 

McCoy watched the two men leave the room, cursing sulfurously under his breath. If Jim was to ever get back in the captain's chair, this was definitely the wrong road to start down. Director of Operations would keep him glued to Earth and Starfleet administration, which was the last place Jim Kirk should be if he was to remain true to himself, his needs, and remarkable talents. _Damn that Asian Machiavelli!_ Surely Nogura could see that Jim belonged out there, juggling dynamite through ion storms, Klingon brutality, and Romulan incursions, relying on the heart and speed of his beloved _Enterprise_ , urging his crew on to feats of courage that would be remembered for centuries to come. He was born to lead, to explore, not push flimsies and slowly petrify in a hidebound bureaucracy!

_What are you going to do about it, Len?_ _Are you going to watch your friend step into the most dangerous trap that's ever been laid for him? Are you going to walk away in disgust at his willingness to obey orders that will, in the end, destroy him? Or are you going to stand by his side and do everything you can to keep him on an even keel until he gets his ship back?_

Spock had stepped back into the room sometime during his ruminations. His dark eyes were full of the same concerns that he was certain radiated in his own. "Are you coming, Doctor?"

There was a wealth of questions in that one sentence and it hung in the air. McCoy was aware that Spock had as many doubts as he did, though they only showed to those who knew his minute expressions and their meanings. "You know what I think about this . . . situation."

"Indeed. It is unfortunate that Admiral Stearns died so quickly, before the _Enterprise_ refit could be completed."

"Unfortunate. That's one word you could use. Disastrous is another."

The Vulcan canted his head, silently appraising him. "He would not understand your defection, Leonard."

"Stop reading my mind, you Vulcan hobgoblin. I'm not going anywhere," he growled, conscious that there had never really been a choice. He was Jim's friend, his doctor, and occasionally, his conscience. It wasn't a role he could dispense with when it became difficult. Not and maintain his self-respect for long.

"Of course not," Spock demurred, though there was a sardonic twist to his lips that said otherwise. "In that event, perhaps you should pack."

As McCoy walked past him, he said, "Though that steel trap you call a brain wouldn't, don't forget that we still have a few sessions to go before I completely clear you for duty."

"Yet, you told Nogura--"

"I know what I told him. Just as I know what I'm telling you." He thrust a finger into Spock's chest, attentive to the fact that the Vulcan had lost at least ten pounds in the past week, and pressed hard. "Don't get so caught up in Jim's issues that you forget your own. When I make appointments, I expect them to be kept, captain." He only used rank with Spock when he believed it completely necessary to make his point. "And I want to see your meal card stacked with protein and reasonable fat for the next month or Jim'll be calling you 'bones'."

A graceful nod was the only response, but it was sufficient.

McCoy sighed and went to his room to pack the few items of clothing he had brought, and the large med/surg kit. He couldn't say this had been a relaxing few days, and by and large, he was glad this session with Spock's primitive biology had proven less perilous than he and Jim had feared. He would be keeping a rather close eye on the both of them for the foreseeable future; it was one thing to say that they were ready for relatively sedentary work, which was true; but high stress at this point of the bond was something he had concerns regarding, and he planned to stay vigilant.

 

 

There was little enough to pack and Kirk dressed quickly, easing into his uniform with a sigh of . . . relief? Appreciation? He wasn't sure. He sat on the bed, and waited for Spock to return. He was glad to be alone for a few minutes, to try and sort through the emotions that were clamoring for attention. He was, he admitted, still in shock.

To be made Director of Operations was a rank that few in the history of Star Fleet had ever attained, and they were legends: Nogura, called "the platinum man" because nothing ever stuck to him and he always appeared clean and bright. And before him, Hamilton, the best damned soldier ever. Hard and ugly on the outside and sheer courage on the inside, encasing a mind that could outfox dozens of Orions, Romulans and Klingonsâ€”and had. Pierson, the first of all of the new operations directors . . . a small, wiry, sly and dangerous man, who was more of a Xops agent than the others, and who had thought in realms of strategy far above anyone else before or since.

And Stearns, who aptly deserved his sobriquet of "Ironsides." Strong-willed, indomitable, brusque to the point of cruelty, but undoubtedly the most brilliant tactician that Earth had ever produced. He had held the position of Ops Director for over twenty years, and had terrorized planets, empires, and whole territories in his efforts to protect Federation planets and their peoples, using a small but dedicated fleet to do it and strategies that had become standard and taught at the Academy.

News of his death would leak out quickly, and the wolves would start to circle ever closer, new raids being conducted on outlying worlds, smugglers and mercenaries taking advantage of what they would perceive as a lapse in Federation security. It was up to him to prevent that, to make certain that their enemies knew that he would not tolerate any incursions on Federation-held space. And assure his own people that he was there for them, as Stearns had done for all of his captains and crews. Add to that the political wrangling . . . the public relations aspects . . . and those who would attempt to jockey for better positions within Fleet . . . and it added up to a headache of massive proportions. He blew out a breath.

For just a moment he allowed the specter of failure to rear its ugly head, before he stuffed it back down into the narrow drawer he kept it in.

There could be no failure in this. Worlds _galaxies_ were depending on him.

Oh, he'd make mistakes; they all had at first. Even Stearns had fallen afoul of tactical ruin upon occasion, botched missions and catastrophic cockups, but he had solved the problems that came with them, and moved on, learning his lessons and never repeating them.

God, his knees were knocking. He'd been both alarmed at the responsibility and keenly confident when he had taken command of _Enterprise_. This feeling was much like that had been, equal parts exhilaration and abject terror. But after three shipboard months, he hadn't been easy to scare anymore.

_Enterprise._ What the hell was he going to do about her? His psych evals often repeated what he well knew: He was not a man content to sit behind a desk when others went into harm's way. How was he going to deal with that?

"Are you attempting to solve every problem this morning? If so, perhaps I should make lunch."

Spock's understated humor short-circuited his rising panic's path north. Jim chuckled. "Thanks, but no. I think Chiro might send the marines out after us if we don't get there a minute ago."

"He may indeed. The aircar is packed, plot laid in, and yet, here you are."

He didn't know what to say. His mouth and brain chimed in with, "It'll be hard."

The Vulcan cocked a brow and his hands went behind his back in the characteristic pose Jim knew so well. "An understatement. It most likely will prove exhaustive, unnerving, even terrifying. Your considerable talents will be stretched. You have been "out there" and know the dangers your captains' face, know their needs, strengths and weaknesses." He considered for a moment, then continued, "You are innately capable of this position. Of this, I have no doubt. Additionally, the Federation's enemies are well-known to you, and you to them. They will not contend with you lightly."

Jim sighed and turned to look at his Vulcan. The ultraviolet rays from the sun had given him a slightly deeper jade tone. "Have I told you today that I love you?"

"You have not."

"Well, I do." He stood up and kissed the hot cheek. "Thanks."

Spock nodded. "I will ever be your executive officer, along with my other duties. It is a function I am uniquely suited for and incapable of relinquishing at this time."

"Are you asking for the job of Deputy Director?" Kirk asked sharply.

Spock seemed surprised by the question. "I am not. I will do it if you require me to, but the position requires a level of leadership capability that I am not certain I possess."

"Bullshit," Jim snapped. "You always say that, but the _Enterprise_ crew would walk through fire if you told them it wouldn't burn them."

A slight smile came to the carved lips. "But they would walk through it for you even _though_ it would burn them."

Jim acknowledged that with a wave of his hand, secretly pleased by the comment. "It's a level of degree of trust and loyalty, Spock. We both engender it in our staff, you in your way, and I in mine. You are the only one who questions your ability to command a mostly human crew. With the proper advisors it wouldn't make any difference." He sighed. "But I'm just repeating myself. Unless and until you believe it, all the words mean nothing."

"You would ask me to command?"

The conversation had gone from humorous to fraught in seconds. But he wouldn't lie. "If necessary. If the time comes that I need an experienced, level-headed commander in a dangerous situation, I would order you to accept command, well aware of where that would lead. You would either accept or resign your commission in Star Fleet."

Spock stood abruptly and stared down at him, mahogany eyes hooded. "That would be a risky decision, Admiral Kirk. I am not without my value."

Jim smiled as he pulled down his uniform shirt. "I am well aware of your value, captain. But caught between a rock and a hard place . . . I would hope that you would see the logic of acceptance; for the sake of the Federation, if for no other reason."

The Vulcan stiffened as if struck. "I have learned that my personal loyalty to you is intrinsic to my being. I do not believe, outside of extreme circumstances, that I could put it aside so easily as to risk my commission."

Jim rubbed his hands along his lover's gold-clad sleeves. "Easy," he soothed, noting the tension against his fingers. "I don't doubt you, Spock. But I know how damned stubborn you can be, even against your own interests."

"I was a science offer, until Mitchell's death and the exigencies of the moment forced me to accept the first officer role."

"And look how well you did. We did. Would you say it wasn't a positive step in your growth as an officer?"

"I cannot."

Jim grasped the arms he had been caressing. "So would you please believe me when I say that I know there is much more to you than a Vulcan-Human hybrid, first Vulcan in Fleet, scientist and first officer, teacher and scholar, pacifist and warrior?"

"Your innate gift is to see potential where others do not."

"Actually, everyone sees your potential but you," Jim told him wryly. "All right, enough chatter. We've got to get going." He looked around to see if he had left anything behind, making a mental note to send a message about the cost of the broken bed to the owners of the cabin.

"Jim," Spock said, holding him by the arm. "What I am attempting to say . . . I will support you in whatever manner you require. You are my _th'y'la_ and bondmate, lover and commander, bound unto death and beyond."

Kirk stopped and looked into the dark, mirror-finish gaze. "And I, to you. Always. Whatever may come, whatever may happen it will not change _us_. I won't let it." He tapped Spock gently on the jaw. "And neither will you. Deal?"

"It is a bargain," Spock told him formally, but there was the quirk of a smile. "It is now 1100 hours."

"Crap! Let's get out of here."


	3. Chapter 3

Spock prepared to be separated from Jim at the entrance to Fleet Central and shifted the aircar into hover mode. It was difficult to leave him; Spock had been so intimately focused on Jim during _pon farr_ that the abrupt transition to a more constrained level was jarring. Contrarily, his lover's attention was entirely focused on the tasks ahead of him and he had had very little to say on the way back from the beach house. Jim gave him a cursory farewell as he was about to exit, only to be intercepted at the aircar door by his aide, Nils Neely. The young male Venusian was flushed, his fuschia skin a deeper color than usual, violet eyes wide and nervous as he held out a new uniform shirt for Kirk to take.

It was the green-gold Y-shape wrap that Kirk preferred. The braid on its sleeves consisted of a thick two-inch piece of gold mesh containing two solid bands within. Higher up the arm were the three one-and-a-half-inch circular gold lacings indicating his rank as Admiral of Operations. Only Nogura, the Admiral of the Fleet, held higher rank than Kirk did now.

Jim lowered his window and accepted the tunic, closing it again and fingering the braid thoughtfully. Spock engaged the privacy lock and the windows became opaque. He remained silent while Jim worked through the emotions that were pressing him into the seat. He could almost physically feel the trepidation that held his bondmate static in the moment.

"I can't say that I never thought about this. I always wanted to be the youngest captain, then admiral, in Fleet . . . but now that it's here. . . . He sighed and pulled the gold shirt and black undershirt over his head in one movement, slipping into the new one with the ease of long practice before handing the worn one to Spock with seeming near-regret. "Now that it's happened, all I want to do is go back to space with you and Bones."

"As the new ship will not be ready for deep-space missions for at least another four-point-seven years, you have sufficient time to prepare the Fleet for the dangers the Organians fear before you sit in the captain's chair again. Admiral, it is logical that you are in this place at this time. Here and now," he said, indicating the dark grey buildings surrounding them with a hand, is where you are most needed."

"Until my girl's ready," Kirk said with wolf's smile, a warning that he would have his way, no matter whom or what attempted to stop him.

"Indeed," Spock agreed, admiring the light of battle in the hazel depths, the heightened color in his cheeks. Cunning, clever, and strong-willed, this was the man that their enemies feared. While Spock had often been alarmed by the lengths that Kirk would go to in order to succeed, he had just as frequently been an admiring witness to the results. There was no reason to believe that this situation would resolve itself in any other way than how Kirk wished, i.e., his return to active mission status when the new _Enterprise_ was ready.

However, whether Nogura would reduce his rank from admiral to captain again was not as certain. He could have Kirk retain the rank, to use to manipulate his actions later, but the issue could not be speculated on further with the information he currently held. The chief was a wily opponent, his psychology easily as complex as Kirk's own, and he hid his motivations and strategies beneath an inscrutable Oriental guise. Leonard McCoy held conflicting opinions of him; he both admired and detested him. Over the years of their mission together, the doctor had fought with Stearns and Nogura on an ongoing basis, though the causes of their arguments were not a subject he would disclose to anyone. Spock had often wondered whether it was himself or Kirk that were the cause of these skirmishes; either was plausible. "I would not bet against you."

Jim's smile widened and he leaned over to place a gentle kiss against his mouth. "Against _us_ ," he emphasized, breath cool against Spock's face.

"Yes, _th'y'la _.__

____

Kirk relaxed for a moment, satisfied. The bond hummed silently between them, vibrating like a tuning fork sharply struck, and then subsided. Jim's tension faded and sheer purpose filled his eyes. This time when he stepped out of the car, his shoulders were square and his stride vigorous. In moments, he was gone from even Vulcan sight, the awareness of his physical presence slowly evaporating from the aircar's cabin.

____

But Spock could feel him still; he could sense the direction of his bondmate's thoughts, the tenor of his emotional state, but he intruded no farther. Spock put the aircar into gear and sped off into the thick traffic of San Francisco. He was quite aware that Jim preferred their bond to be peripheral until he chose to deepen it. Perhaps that was the wisest course. Ethically, if he were anyone other than a Vulcan, Spock knew that a connection such as theirs would be cause for alarm within the administrative offices of Star Fleet.

____

That thought caused him to frown. Given the strain of xenobigotry within the less progressive members of the UFP and Star Fleet, there was always the possibility that their bond would be viewed as a threat rather than an asset.

____

Displeased by that perception, he considered what could be done to offset it, and was immediately unable to find an expedient solution. Dismissing it for the moment, he maneuvered the aircar through mid-afternoon traffic and to the Academy grounds. Parking spaces were always at a premium, but he was able to find one after much searching. He normally took the tram service to the Academy grounds and did not have a regular space outside his office in the Science and Mathematics collegia. He took a moment to center his thoughts before alighting.

____

He was currently teaching four courses: advanced analytical statistics; electromagnetic radiation; spatial thermodynamics; and astrophysical anomalies. After being out of the classroom for a week there would be a great deal of coursework to attend to. He took the lift to the topmost floor and went to check on the repairs to his office. The academy engineers had gutted the space after it had been devastated by a resonance bomb thirty-four-point-three days ago. The perpetrators had not been apprehended as yet, an issue that disturbed him on many levels. The door slid open at his touch on the ident pad and he stepped inside.

____

The general dimensions were the same as before, but numerous changes had been made to the interior. Where there had been a large window opposite the door previously, now the entire wall was composed of glittering quartz deuterium, allowing the interplay of the yellow light of Sol into the room. As he moved, small rainbows appeared as the deuterium fractured the light into a wavelike color spectrum. The space was entirely gleamingly white, except for the large circular desk that sat in front of the window, a narrow chair behind it. There were three computer screens embedded into the desk top, and he wondered if their computing power had been slaved together, as he had done on _Enterprise_. By touching a few keys, he learned that they had been, and his brow rose in surprise. Against the long length of the wall on his right were two matching spiral staircases, leading up to a smaller central desk with a larger and more complex comp board, one that he learned was directly attached to the new programs and brain he was designing for the _Enterprise_ computers. Now he wouldn't need to travel to the engineering section in Fleet Central to work in the labs there. Two round tables had been placed on either side of the staircases, with chairs and comps for his students to work on. To his left was an artistic array of shelves in step-pyramid fashion from floor to elevated ceiling for any items he wished to place there.

____

As he sat in the chair by his desk, and felt the magnification of the sun's warmth caused by the quartz crystal structure, he gave a soft sigh of appreciation for its heat. The collegia was maintained at a Terran-perfect seventy degrees, but Spock was more comfortable at a much higher temperature and often felt chilled in the environs of the academy.

____

He knew whose handiwork this was; the spare, unadorned construction and painstaking attention to detail was indicative of only Montgomery Scott. Whose actions, considering Spock had destroyed the model of Scott's _Enterprise_ only days ago when the _pon farr_ had begun, were as generous as they had been efficient. Though it was illogical to facilitate the destruction of the engineer's liver with consumption of dangerous grain alcohol, it was Scott's preferred "poison." He ordered two bottles of Glen Garioch of 2058 from the distributor, which was still fermented and bottled in the northern part of Scotland on Earth, to be delivered to Scott at the Experimental Engineering offices he had been assigned to in Central. When he wasn't there, he could usually be found at Space Dock, overseeing the disassembly of "his sweet lassie." Accustomed as he was to every bolt and panel on the ship, he was best able to direct the teams who had the unenviable job of taking apart the former flagship.

____

For his part, Jim avoided the Space Dock vid feeds, unable to watch while the ship he loved was stripped to her struts, her parts reduced and recycled. He was intimately involved, however, in her re-design, along with Spock. Collaborating with Scott, they reviewed, researched, requested, and recommended all manner of spec changes while McCoy chimed in about Sickbay, medical research, and the recreational sections. Spock focused on the science areas, laboratories, and research facilities; Kirk dealt with personnel administration, weaponry and those sections dedicated to exploration; and Scott with structural design, actual construction, experimental engineering, and the warp engines themselves. There was a great deal of overlap between reports, and messages flew thick and fast between them, positing ideas, thoughts, and conceptual analyses, all of which Scott attempted to include in the design. While he couldn't incorporate the entirety of their "wish lists," as he called them, Scott continued to integrate a large number of the requirements, extending the overall size of the ship twice again, yet keeping dilithium requirements low by using a more efficient engine blueprint.

____

Spock believed the engine re-design was brilliant, incorporating new information in the fields of interspatial dynamics and ship skin technology to tauten the warp field itself, which would make the strain on the engines less taxing in warp space and yielding greater speed. Much of the next two years would be taken up with experiments involving the Scott warp engine system. Though Spock was not an engineer, he had read enough reports from those working with Scott to know that they unequivocally deemed the new engine plan to be superlative to all others, though the Fleet accountants were dismayed by the astronomical expense of the new alloys required for it to work.

____

As he logged onto his mail server and began to wade through the hundreds of messages from students, colleagues, acquaintances, former _Enterprise_ staff, journal deliveries and all manner of other issues, he focused on his bondmate subliminally, not wanting to distract him. There was a great sense of resolve in his thoughts, but he was calm and focused, so Spock turned back to his own work, quickly sorting the inconsequential from the vital and opening those messages first.

____

Dr. Esira, Dean of the Academy, advised him that the three ethics complaint lodged against him by his colleagues had not been resolved as yet; nor had the executor of the bomb-plot been found. Spock was uncertain which of the two issues was more disturbing--or could they be related? There were a number of educators in the maths and sciences who apparently did not care to have a Vulcan included in the staff, though no one had said as much to his face. And Bader had warned him that some did not appreciate what they considered competition for choice research facilities and prestigious and lucrative grants. Would they wish to solve the problem of his presence by throwing a resonance bomb into his office when it was presumed he would be there in minutes?

____

He noted that Scott had placed a sensor feed on his desktop, which showed the corridor outside his office, and that the door had locked behind him when he had entered. A small padd allowed him to grant access to those he chose, while preventing unwanted visitors in the event they carried a weapon. No doubt Scott had heard of the incident and both Kirk and Esira wanted to prevent a reoccurrence; subtle but impressive security measures were the result. For a moment he wondered how Scott had found the time and dismissed it as another of the human's "miracles."

____

Bader had apparently found his study plan and had taken over his classes, though it must have been a strain to teach them as well as his own. He and Randile had sent the relevant assignments to Spock for review and grading. Eschewing lunch, he settled down to mark the assignments and prepare for his next class.

____

 

____

 

____

Jim Kirk had been the center of attention for as long as he could remember. Intellectually gifted, handsome, and possessing a charisma that charmed all genders, he was comfortable in the spotlight.

____

However, as he strode into Fleet Central with Nils by his side rattling off his appointments for the rest of the day, Kirk was uncomfortably aware that he was being stared at. It wasn't a new experience; since _Enterprise_ had returned home, her crew had been a public relations circus, until the ten-days wonder had died down, and people became once more inured to their presence. However, the way people skittered out of his way then turned to salute when he went past was an entirely new phenomenon now that it was directed at him.

____

With a gesture he silenced Neely, and made his way to the lift, his aide trailing at his back like a nervous ghost. Fleet Operations and their offices were housed directly beneath Nogura's on the twenty-ninth floor. They took up the entire level, with the heart of the department in the center, Strategic Ship Operations or SSO. Armored and holding phaser rifles, four grim-visaged security officers allowed him to pass with a nod of acknowledgement. Kirk stepped inside the glass doors of SSO, which was the only way to get to Stearns' _his_ office, he mentally amended.

____

Those inside hesitated; he could feel the analysts almost hold their breath as he entered. The large octagonally-shaped room was familiar. He'd spent as much time here as he could steal from his administrative duties while he had been deputy ops director. On every wall were placed rectangular screens, each one merging into the next, to give a complete galaxy-wide view. The lighter areas contained sectors of space that had been explored, while the much larger and darker portions were those that had not been ventured into yet. The analysts noted where every ship of the line was located in real-time, highlighted in colored ship-coding numbers and letters.

____

Analysts sat in radiating concentric circles, taking in information from subspace info squirts that ships regularly sent out. Every day, a ship's captain had to file various command orders: ships complement, mission status, planned patrol route, computer uploads of data from the sensors, astrophysical regularity and anomalies, plus his log. These were accepted by Central Communications and sent to the necessary departments; only SSO received all of it. Specific analysts would correlate the information, parse it for significance, update the real-time transponders against sensor buoys, and with confirmation, correct the screens.

____

The most important work was done by senior analysts, whose job it was to ask questions. If an analyst in the outer ring of the circle of their desks even scratched his head, something was up. These people knew how ships should work, should move, should fight, and if anything was even remotely unusual it was their job to report it.

____

Kirk took a necessary twenty minutes that afternoon walking the screens, talking to the officers there, incorporating the pulse of SSO into his blood once more, before heading out to take the lift to Nogura's office, leaving Neely behind.

____

He'd been there before, though he usually met the chief in less formal circumstances and locations. Nogura had taken an interest in Kirk early in his career, acting as a guide, a substitute grandfather-figure and friend.

____

The walls were curved like a ship's prow and made of the same silver-white deuterium that acted as a skin for deep-space ships. It gleamed as he exited the lift, the sheen adding grandeur to the tall walls and Fleet blue carpeting. As soon as he stepped out, the doors in the wall, undetectable previously, slid open.

____

The immensity of the office was what immediately caught your attention as you entered. Easily as large as all of SSO, it contained a wall of screens which hung behind the huge black enameled table that Nogura used as a desk. The screens reflected some of what Operations did, along with various aspects of EarthDock, SpaceDock, ships in various stages of construction or decommission, MoonBase, and the Academy Collegia, along with feeds of the general meetings of the UFP and Earth Senate, Cosmic News Network, Klingon Empire feeds, and Terran newschannels. Nogura had his feelers out for anything that could possibly affect the Fleet. Kirk was surprised he didn't have a feed from the Neutral Zone, but that vast expanse of territory couldn't be encompassed without an entire new wall.

____

To the right of his desk stood a floor to ceiling wall-sculpture of the fleet insignia, and around it were holos of every ship of the line past and present, their designation, and status engraved below, which followed the curve of the wall from left to right.

____

At the end of the room on the right as you entered was a comfortable seating area and conference table of massive proportions. Everything about the display was ostentatiously dedicated to Fleet, limned in luxury and stark beauty. Behind his desk sat the Admiral of the Fleet, Commander in Chief Heihachiro Nogura.

____

Nogura's eyes were a pale gold, which subtly enhanced the epicanthic folds of his eyes and the pitch black hair that hung in a plait from his neck. He was the same height as Kirk, but his body showed perhaps a more obsessive application to gym workouts. More than anything else, though, his presence was one of quiet strength, indicative of an implacability of character and integrity in service to his duty. "Jim," he said softly. "I'm damned glad to see you."

____

Standing up, Nogura came around his desk and grasped Kirk's hand. This close to him, Jim could see the grief that he was unable to hide.

____

"I'm sorry about Admiral Stearns, sir. I know you were friends."

____

"We were." The man closed his eyes for a second and when they opened, they were bright with unshed tears. "But he died in his office, where he would have wanted to be. You know he'd been suffering from Sakura Syndrome; time was limited." Nogura looked into Kirk's eyes. "He believed in you, Jim. He liked how bold you were around him, not cowering, being contrary when he needed you to be, and _thinking_ about what the ships of the line should have, what we should be giving to them to make it safer for them to do their jobs. He appreciated your strategic style, the relationship you developed with the staff, and though he loathed public relations, understood the desire of people to create heroes to emulate. He had never been the sort of man that would have statues carved of his likeness." The CINC chuckled. "He did expect you to slowly take on more and more of the work, so that he could let go gradually, but it was not to be. And now you're in the hot seat."

____

Jim gave him a rueful grimace. "That's putting it mildly, Chiro. We have a lot of work to do."

____

"Agreed." In a moment, the chief had put aside his grief, and focused on the problems ahead. "I've read your reports and am in full agreement with your and Steven's assessment of Fleet strength. I am already working on facilitating UFP funding to development and construction, and prioritizing intel procurement."

____

"Stealthy shipbuilding and spy networks, in other words."

____

The CINC frowned at him. "Bluntly put, but accurate. There is a staff meeting here every morning at seven. I've forwarded all the relevant reports you should be up to date on by then. Oh, who have you chosen as your deputy?"

____

"I haven't." At the quizzical and impatient glare in received in response, he continued, "Yet."

____

"Well, get on it. You know what the job entails."

____

Jim gave him a wry smile. "See you tomorrow, sir."

____

"And Jim?"

____

"Sir?"

____

"We're going to make this work, Jim. You and me." Nogura's hand rested on Kirk's shoulder, his golden eyes intent and serious. "Keep the lid on the pot until I can get more ships out there, train more crews, put more eyes in the field."

____

Kirk had his doubts whether they would last long enough for all that to happen before the Organian doom descended, but he gave his chief a confident smile through the chill that had enveloped him. The enormity of the role he was taking on finally struck him fully, leaving him feeling like a small child, newly terrified of thunderstorms rolling outside the windows. The sensation only lasted for a few moments, but it left an impression of dread behind. What he feared, he didn't know, but it sunk itself deep into his vitals and twisted. "Yes, sir," he murmured.

____

"Good. Dismissed."

____

Years of fraught situations and life or death decisions stood him in good stead, as his knees had developed a sudden distressing tendency to shiver as he made his way back to Ops.

____

_You can do this._

____

_You can do this._

____

_You can. You will._

____

There were no other options available.

____

He began by returning to SSO, and taking his place behind the large, ancient, and scarred desk that Stearns had favored. It was covered in data padds, flimsies, and the inevitable computer screens. All the other man's personal items had been removed, though the admiral's cologne was embedded in the air. It would take a while for the air scrubbers to remove it completely, as they were notoriously slow in the administration spaces. The office had felt small and cramped with Stearns in it; now it seemed overly big and very lonely.

____

Nils gave him a few minutes and then entered, his data padd at the ready, a comp link in his ear and a hot cup of coffee in his hand. He set it at Kirk's elbow. "Admiral Stearns aide is on stand-by, sir." He handed Kirk a data chip which he inserted into the slot on the comp. "Its name is Falan Dreer.

____

Jim reviewed the commander's file, noting that he was a Metairian androgyne, currently male. His reviews were uniformly excellent, and he had an eidetic memory, an asset in any position. He was also a member of the clergy of Metair, a long established religious sect that restricted interpersonal relationships to those within the group. Considering how much time Kirk would be spending at Central, Spock might appreciate that, Jim thought with a slight smile.

____

"Fine. Send him in. You're assigned to work with my deputy . . . whenever I get around to appointing one," he said with a touch of wry acid in his voice. Nogura always wanted things done yesterday, even though he gave the order today.

____

Commander Dreer was a fine example of the genetic perfection that Metairans prized, his angular features and true turquoise gaze topped by a head of fine black hair that only made him that much more beautiful. As was usual with androgynes, his face was a blend of male and female, rugged lines offset by soft skin and ample lips. Kirk realized that he had been staring for a little over ten seconds and nodded to Dreer, indicating a chair.

____

They sat together for the better part of six hours, Dreer updating him on issues that the deputy director had not been privy to. Kirk was struck by the commander's remarkable memory for detail, able to make a favorable comparison in that regard to his favorite Vulcan, though Dreer had neither Spock's encyclopedic knowledge base to draw on, nor as facile an intellect, either.

____

The details of the building of new starships and heavy cruisers were only a small part of his daily business. Stearns had been redirecting intelligence through the public relations service, so that the buildup was not seen as what it was: A prelude to possible war.

____

"Where are the budget allocations for the _Dreadnought_ ship design?" he asked Dreer, holding out a hand without taking his gaze from the report he was already reading.

____

"There are none, sir."

____

"I beg your pardon, commander, but you can't take an aspirin in Fleet without a budget allocation form. So where is it?"

____

The sea-blue gaze remained calm and steady, ignoring Kirk's asperity. "If you will note on the report regarding the construction of _Excalibur_ , the budget code is earmarked CINC1."

____

"That's no code I'm familiar with. They're usually nine digits. What's CINC1?"

____

Dreer didn't flinch. "Admiral Nogura's discretionary fund."

____

"Discretionary," Kirk repeated flatly.

____

"Aye, sir. Since the budget allocations have already been completed for this financial year, any new building or missions without prior accommodation must be placed under this coding."

____

"And how large is this discretionary fund?"

____

"I do not know. Perhaps it is sufficient to say that it had never required regulatory oversight or accounting review."

____

Jim rubbed his mouth and reviewed the files he had just read. _Damn. Undisclosed funds. PR re-directs. Black-op spy missions on both Klinzai and Romulus. Secret orders cut to the ships that regularly patrolled the Neutral Zone. Chiro's pulling out all the stops._ Given his actions, Kirk doubted that the Organian warning was the only reason Nogura was assembling a larger fleet capability and investing more deeply in various forms of infiltration. True, there had been recent Klingon incursions on protected worlds, but they had been rebuffed, or so they had believed at the time. The ships _Constellations_ and _Ranger_ had lost twenty crewmembers between them. Had the Klingons actions been nothing more than a feint to determine how quickly the Federation would respond and which sectors would be left unprotected?

____

He reviewed the flimsies regarding the _Dreadnought_ -style blueprints. Immediate analysis indicated that they were heavy battle cruisers designed for nothing less than a fully-defensive war footing.

____

The recent cadet recruiting drive was also underway, underscored by vids of the _Enterprise_ crew and their adventures. Jim had his concerns about that, but was aware any applicant who was either incapable or incompetent would be quickly weeded out. Glamour was all very good, and heroism even better, but the Fleet needed men and women of extraordinary integrity and dedication, not glory hounds.

____

"Oh, and the late admiral had me put together a list of those he believed would be a good fit as your deputy, sir."

____

Jim stared at the Metairian, nonplussed and dismayed. "He _what_?"

____

Dreen gave him a slight smile. "He knew he was dying, sir. He didn't know when, but knew it would be soon."

____

That hadn't been what Nogura had told him when he'd signed on as deputy. "How long were you his aide?"

____

"Ten years, sir."

____

Jim pursed his lips. "That's a long time to serve one man. Didn't you want to move on in your career?" Kirk couldn't imagine being under Stearns for that long without breaking down and either running for the hills or killing him.

____

"No, sir. We worked well together. Of course, he was a remarkably bad-tempered being, easily irritated, and did not suffer fools gladly. But he was also courageous, steadfast, loyal, true, and the most frustrating poker or chess player I have ever known. He loved Star Fleet and his loyalty to its aims was a deciding factor in my decision to remain here for so long. Many of the Federation's enemies learned the meaning of fear at his hands."

____

Kirk smiled. "His friends, too. His captains were terrified of him, but we all wanted to emulate his courage and brilliance in the field. As a commander, his talents were awe-inspiring."

____

Dreen nodded. "I was privileged, sir. For all his gruffness, he was my friend, and I will miss him most dreadfully."

____

He considered that. "I'll understand if you don't want to remain in Ops, Falan."

____

The commander seemed surprised. "That's not at all what I meant, sir. I would prefer to remain and repay his loyalty by continuing his work. I'd very much like to stay, if that's all right with you?"

____

Jim nodded, satisfied. "Let's give it some time, and if you change your mind, or we aren't a fit, then you can go on your way without any hard feelings."

____

Dreen agreed. "Yes, sir," and the personal moment was over as quickly as it had begun. They returned to work, shuffling through all manner of paperwork and minutiae until Kirk's stomach growled and he glanced at the chron to see that it was long past dinner.

____

_Spock?_

____

_I am here._

____

_Did you eat already?_

____

_Some hours ago. Will you return to the residence tonight?_

____

Kirk glanced at his overflowing desk and released Dreen with a gesture and a, "Full staff meeting, 0800 hours, commander."

____

"Aye, sir."

____

_I don't feel comfortable leaving yet. There's so much to do. . . ._

____

_Which will still be there tomorrow, Jim. You must eat and rest._

____

_I know._

____

_You are not far from home, th'y'la._

____

_I know that too. I'll be there . . . later._

____

_As you will._

____

The gentle and loving mind-voice disappeared abruptly and Kirk wanted to pull it back and fall into the deep tones, relax in his Vulcan's arms, knowing their steel would keep them safe. But there was far too much to be done, and they were already behind.

____

Stretching, he got up from the desk and walked out to the analysts, reviewing the screens and what they told him. All was quiet. Well, not that quiet. There was plague on Cenaris III, a violent rebellion on Tarlus which threatened Federation citizens, slavers raiding worlds on the rim, Andorian weapons traders exacerbating a war between three sectors, and a mercenary ship that had landed on a pre-civilized backwater world called Arla. The Romulans were too quiet. The Klingons were pulling back to Klinzai, which was out of character. And the Organians were jumpy.

____

He walked to each one of the fifteen analysts and started asking questions. Whatever patterns might be made out there, here was where they would find the strings to lead them to unraveling it.

____

When he returned to his office, a meal had been laid out on his desk. It was almost 2100 hours and he was hungry. While he ate he looked through the possible candidates for the deputy position.

____

The first name on the list was Commodore Saris, and Kirk choked on his coffee, and snorted. _It's a joke_ , he told himself. _It has to be._ Saris loathed Kirk and the feeling was mutual. Stearns had been aware of their animosity; Jim had gotten _Enterprise_ and Saris had been left choking on his fumes.

____

The second was Trinilon of Andor. There were only a few Andorians in the Fleet, and it was considered a considerable social gaffe to take service outside the Andorian Guard, so Trinilon had to be a strong so-and-so. The race was very hive-minded and usually travelled and worked in groups. To be isolated from his hive made him a curious Andorian. He had a stellar record, serving with distinction on three ships of the line. To accept him as a deputy could only be considered in the light of a political appointment, a way to either please or dismay the Andorian contingent in the Federation; he was too tired to figure out which.

____

The next candidate was Commander Halin of Delta. Jim hesitated and then gazed at her holo again. An older female, mid-fifties, she was remarkably lovely, with clear cool sapphire eyes and short-cut silver blonde hair. Her record was outstanding; she'd served as weapons officer on the _Reveille,_ science officer on the ill-fated _Valiant_ , and currently was posted as exec on the _Resolute,_ which was undergoing repairs at MoonBase before heading out to the Galactic Rim.

____

Following her on the list was a Terran, Captain Dane Treygar of the starship _Venture._ Kirk immediately scratched him off the list along with Saris. Treygar had been a classmate of Jim's while he'd been in the Academy and they served on the science vessel _Quest_ together. A bigger and more complete ass Kirk had yet to meet; Treygar did nothing without determining what opportunity there was in it for him. He stepped on people to get what he wanted, and had been instrumental in the devastating accident on Camus IV that killed nine crewmembers. How he had made captain's rank was entirely due to accidentally falling into a conspiracy and routing out Romulan sympathizers in Fleet.

____

There were three other names, but none of them had what Kirk was looking for. He looked back at Halin and considered. _A Deltan_. He'd never met one before but of course knew of their reputation. Believed to be the most sensual humanoids in the known galaxy, the pheromones of Deltans could drive a man or woman to do almost anything to gain their sexual favors. An oath of celibacy with other humanoid species was required for a Deltan to serve in StarFleet, with the proviso that their sexual contact be directed to their own kind. Kirk considered that; for a Deltan the most graphic sex that a Terran would consider was nothing more than a handshake, and vids that documented Deltan matings were illegal on Earth. He'd seen one or two during his academy days and was surprised to find they made him squirm uncomfortably and not in arousal.

____

Making a few notes, he sent the message requesting Halin report to him, and then shut it all down. He felt like he'd been beaten, tension like a hot rod across his neck and shoulders. And he missed his Vulcan.

____

Could it have been only this morning that he and Bones were walking across the sand, talking about Kirk's sex life? It seemed like a dream. The real world had struck them hard and fast, and they had fallen out of the dreamscape into a demanding reality. He didn't bother to take anything home; the work wouldn't go anywhere, and he was reeling with fatigue.

____

On the way out he checked with the senior analyst on Beta shift, Nolan Feehan. Like everyone else in SSO, Nolan was wearing a black ribbon across his insignia, and he looked remarkably sad.

____

Jim clasped his shoulder, and the older man turned around. Ops was the only place in Fleet Central where the officers did not have to stand and salute their seniors. Their jobs were far too important for that. Feehan was a corpulent human, his red hair having long slipped away to leave a shiny bald head. He was usually cheerful, but obviously the death of his commander had upset him. "I know you liked the old bear, Nolan. I'm sorry."

____

Feehan grinned up at him, but his green eyes were dark. "We all gotta go sometime, admiral. He just knew it was coming." He gazed at Kirk. "We admired him. We saw how hard he worked and what it meant to him. He felt every death like it was one of his own kids. And lost ships made him madder than a hornet for months. When you managed to outwit the Tholians that time he was grinning for a week. And after you stole the cloaking device? He brought us all champagne that night. Don't go on thinking he didn't like you, Jim. He did; he was just lousy at letting people know."

____

Kirk nodded, appreciating the man even more now that he was gone. "Going home. See you tomorrow."

____

"Aye, sir. If something pops, you'll hear from me."

____

"Thanks, Nolan. Good night."

____

With tired steps he made his way to the efficiency quarters he shared with Spock. It was only 400 meters from the office to their apartment, but it felt like miles. _Why the hell am I so tired?_ he asked himself. _Not like I haven't worked a long shift before._

____

Spock met him at the door dressed in the loosely flowing sand colored tunic and pants he liked. "You, however, have not endured _pon farr_ previously. And the mental bonding takes a great deal of energy. Over time, we will adapt to its demands, but for now, you need rest."

____

"I don't have time for rest, Spock," he complained. "Every minute something is happening out there; it may be important, or it may lead to nothing, but I have to know about it."

____

The Vulcan walked him into the bedroom, and sat him down on the bed, listening to him whine like some spoiled child as he pulled off his boots, and slid the uniform pants down his legs. He tossed the new shirt into the chute. "I don't have any others yet. What am I supposed to wear tomorrow?"

____

"Your uniforms were delivered this evening and are hanging in the closet." Spock pulled him to his feet and pushed him under the bathroom, turning on the water shower that was Kirk's preference. Hot and steamy, it felt good on his aching body, and the tension headache that was set in the bone behind his eyes.

____

The Vulcan wrapped him tightly in a towel and towed him to the bed, where the lights had been lowered, fragrant candles lit, and the bed opened invitingly. He lay down on his stomach, tucked a pillow underneath his head, and closed his eyes, willing his overactive mind to slow and stop. At the touch of Spock's hands on his body, the headache ebbed and faded until it was completely gone, his strong fingers finding the soreness in his neck and shoulders and kneading it away.

____

Jim was barely awake when he felt Spock's kiss on the nape of his neck. "Rest now, _th'y'la_." The lights went out at his murmured command, and Spock removed his clothing and slid into the bed beside him. He moved into Spock's chest with an audible sigh of relief and let the darkness have him.

____


	4. Chapter 4

McCoy glared down at the student before him. Arend Dar was a humanoid from the Mars Colony, and the most arrogant shit he'd had to teach thus far. The fact that Dar was exceptional only made the aggravation worse.

But at the moment, he was asleep. Snoring, actually, during McCoy's lecture on xenobiology. He had been discussing the clinical case of a young Arcturan boy who had recently died of a massive infection, an infestation by a mutated fungi, one that was usually benign. It had yet to be cultured outside of a tissue sample which was maintained at 212 degrees in McCoy's lab.

The students around Dar tried to hiss and give a warning, but he slept on. McCoy tossed the young man's booted feet off the chair they rested on, and when he opened his eyes, asked, "Late night?"

Dar scratched his head sleepily. "Was, actually."

"Am I boring you, Dr. Dar?" His tone was icy. He worked hard on making the classes not just interesting, but _fascinating_ , as his friend Spock might say.

Arend had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "Sorry, Doctor McCoy." He slowly sat up and looked around. "Hot patient last night." Arend rubbed his eyes and focused. Turning away with considerably more understanding, McCoy asked the class in general, "Any ideas?"

As he continued the class, McCoy thought about the Tritt kid and how O-Dia had been so broken up about his death. The weekly Morbidity and Mortality roundup had found both McCoy and O-Dia correct in their drastic treatment plan for the boy's condition, but the delay between identification and treatment had been brought up. They had been frustrated by O-Dia's indecisiveness; McCoy had remained silent on that point, though he had spoken up regarding the treatment itself.

She sat silently at the back of the hall now, her petite body tense. He knew that the young Pellucidan woman was still stinging over the boy's death. Their relationship was a poorly kept secret around the academy and hospital, though McCoy had made certain that his assistant graded all her papers and exams; he refused to give anyone the chance to level charges of favoritism against him. That she did well in this class was entirely dependent on her own work and nothing else.

McCoy was somewhat startled to find that most of his students believed that it was better to wait and watch the patient, then act. Granted, his own training had been as a surgeon first, and a xenospecialist after, but to sit by and wait for further developments while a patient was circling the drain seemed like the worst possible plan. The group discussed it until the end of class time, and as he left the lecture hall a few followed along to continue the conversation. He noticed Dar, O-Dia, Slan Fendell, and her wife, Daria.

Though they had all selected sub-specialties in human medicine prior to coming to the Academy, they were continuing their studies in the hope of being selected to serve in space. And in order for that to happen, McCoy had to sign their orders. At this point, he didn't have faith that many of the students he had seen would make it to a ship, and after that, would stay and re-up after a five-year mission. Being a space doc was a hard row to hoe, and no one knew that better than he did. Yet the challenges to be found there dwarfed anything Earth could throw at you, and if you survived, the hard days were offset by the better ones.

His department, Medical-Surgical Training for Space Based Missions, was a neat, clean space housed on the first floor at one end of the looming, ivy-covered building that dated from the twenty-second century. The double doors opened into a reception area, which was surrounded by small, tight offices where his staff worked. Behind the large reception area stood McCoy's office, containing a mixture of furniture of different colors, styles, and ages. Boxes he had yet to unpack sat by the door and his antique desk was covered in all sorts of paperwork, padds, and flimsies, surrounding a holo of Joanna taken on their last vacation together.

Early mornings were completely taken up with rounds and doctor/patient evaluations, and late mornings he held his xenobiology classes. Afternoons consisted of meetings and paperwork, while evenings he had rounds again. He either met O-Dia for a late dinner and drinks at his place, or worked on the xenobiology textbook he'd begun until the wee hours when he finally slept, only to begin again the next day. He was busy, but it was enjoyable work, and he felt as though he was making a difference--or would be, once he and Brad Grant sat down for evaluations of the students in the program. As for the program itself, it needed overhauling, which was why McCoy had been dragooned to run it.

If he were honest with himself, he had to admit that this was the first time in his life he had been completely satisfied with both his personal and professional lives. Did the politics of the job sometimes get on his nerves? Of course. Did he enjoy wrangling with overconfident physicians who believed that they were always right? Hell, no. Did they appreciate being reminded that their patients were scared, angry, hurting people and not just a set of symptoms? Not at all.

Was it necessary?

Damned right it was.

McCoy had never cared for the current breed of doctor, the ones who used all the technology available to leave their humanity at the door and prided themselves on never having to touch a patient. It didn't matter whether you were black, blue, green or yellow, everyone deserved the respect of their doctor. And more importantly, the doctor needed to deserve respect in return. So many didn't care, or had come into the field believing that it was a road to wealth and esteem, that when it turned out to be hard work, they lost interest in their patients and their skills. Granted, not all. But some; too large a minority for his comfort. And it was these that made it difficult for the rest to do their jobs. A patient who had lost faith in his doctor was a patient who would lose faith in his treatment, and in his ability to heal. Leonard McCoy would be buried long before he'd let one of his students become like that.

Jim called him a "country doctor," and he said it with a great deal of affection. If that meant that he touched his patients, that he listened to what they had to say, and responded accordingly, that their lives were at least as important to him as his own--then yes, that's exactly what he was. But he was going to make damn sure that the men and women Kirk sent into harm's way had a doctor that would be ready, able, and willing to patch them up in the middle of a firefight.

And that was what he was going to explain to Brad Grant, the Medical Collegia's able administrator when they sat down together next week. In the meantime, he had a lot of work to do re-tooling the current program into what he saw it should be, with emphasis on hard work, practical realities, and empathy.

Before he dived back into it, he had a thought for his two friends.

Sitting back into his chair, he considered the morning's events. Jim had chosen to marry a male Vulcan. They'd undergone the harrowing process of _pon farr_ , emerging somewhat purer from the fire, and certainly more aware of the sexual attraction that undercut all their interactions. He remembered how they were when Kirk was first assigned _Enterprise_ : Spock, wary but fascinated, and Jim, in command and flirting with the unobtainable. They had played with each other for the better part of five years, until Jim had fallen into the hands of the Di-Shan and they attempted to steal his mind away from him. Spock's actions held a certain inevitability, he'd thought then, and when the Vulcan sages hadn't been able to break their bond soon after, it was no real surprise to anyone. Though McCoy had known a few scary moments when it looked like Kirk was going to die from a brain embolus caused by the attempt.

Jim's anxiety, brought on by Spock's own sexual authority, was to be expected. Kirk liked having control; he was master and commander of his own ship, and assumed he would be in all his relationships as well. And while Spock was content to follow his lead in most things, he was a dominant Vulcan male in the bedroom. During his time, at least. It would be interesting to learn if he was the same outside of _pon farr_ as well.

McCoy hoped so. Jim required someone who could take him down a peg when necessary; yielding to Spock sexually would help them retain some semblance of balance out of the bedroom.

With balance in mind, he opened his mail system and sent O-Dia a message.

Is my lady free this evening to meet her adoring lover (who has been away from her too damned long)?;

Her reply was quick. It would please me no end to see you. Tonight? Your apartment?

<Wine?>

<You won't have need of it.> Which was O-Dia's ladylike way of saying he wouldn't have time to let the bottle breathe before she was on him. Oh, he _liked_ her. She wasn't at all hesitant to tell him what she wanted.

<I'll be waiting.>

He grinned, rubbed his hands together, and got back to work.

 

 

Kirk woke with a smile and bounced out of bed. He'd been dreaming of Iowa again, reliving the recent vacation he and Spock had taken to his home town. His Vulcan was already awake and in his favorite meditation position before his firepot. He attempted to be quiet as he showered and dressed. Spock was done by the time he was and they shared a quick breakfast and a quicker kiss before Jim was out the door for his morning senior staff meeting.

On the way, he checked his data padd and was pleased to learn Commander Halin had made an appointment for that afternoon. He arrived in Nogura's office ten minutes early, sufficient time to greet the other department heads before they got down to business.

There were five other admirals who conferred around the great table with the Fleet insignia engraved in its center: Danfield, head of Acquisition, Technology & Logistics; Lefkowitz, Comptroller, CFO; Mitre, head of Intelligence; Kitaza, head of Personnel & Readiness; and Holt, director of policy. As had often been noted by critics of the Fleet, the senior command structure was mostly composed of Terrans, with the single exception of Kitaza, a Metairian female.

Each of them gave a concise briefing on three main points, and Kirk followed suite. He had not met most of them previously, other than Kitaza, and could not read their faces. They watched him coolly, and when he was finished, Admiral Mitre asked, "Organians, Kirk? Really?"

He sighed. "Really."

"Steven sure took it seriously," Lefkowitz added, directing his attention to Mitre. "He wasn't often wrong."

"No, not often," Holt said. "Damn, I am going to miss that old bastard. No offense, Kirk."

"None taken. Believe me when I say that I wish he were here."

His remark caused the table to chuckle. "I bet you do," Danfield told him, his bald head shining in the overhead lighting. "I wouldn't want your job for a year of back pay."

"Like I'd give it to you," Lefkowitz said with a wry smile. "I have just enough to pay the bills, and not a credit more."

"Is it some elaborate hoax?" Mitre asked. He was a little man, who would have at one time been called a dwarf, with an average-sized head on a truncated body. His eyes were such a deep brown as to be near black, and deep-set beneath a thatch of thick, short-cropped black hair.

"No," Jim insisted. "They are frightened of something, some threat they perceive and we haven't yet."

"If that's the case, why be so vague about it?"

Nogura spoke up for the first time. "The Organians do not have a linear view of time. They see some things in advance; to change the future, they must be very careful of what they do or say." He waved a dismissing hand. "Don't think that I enjoy their skulking around like Dickens' ghost--I don't. But they are trying to help in the only way they can. Perhaps to speak of the threat out loud would change the balance and lead us into darkness worse than what they fear. I don't know." Chiro turned to him. "What do you think, Jim?"

Kirk took a breath. "Spock and I put our heads together on this a number of times, trying to figure them out. At present, we believe the Organians have seen or felt some sort of doom overtaking the galaxy. Something violent. As you know, they don't like violence; the psychic emanations of hate and the baser emotions seem to make them ill in some manner we haven't been able to determine since they don't have physical bodies as we know them. I still don't know whether what happened on Organia really did happen, or whether it occurred only in our minds. They could easily have made us see and think whatever they chose." He let that sink in and then continued, "But whatever they fear happening, it would destroy us. Of that I am certain."

The room stayed silent for a good minute before conversation began again.

He was satisfied that these people understood the threat. Though undefined, it was real.

As the meeting broke up, Kitaza came up to Kirk. "Admiral Nogura has said that you haven't chosen your deputy yet."

He smiled. "I'm meeting with a candidate this afternoon."

"Who?"

"Commander Halin of the _Resolute_."

Kitaza nodded her head. "She is brilliant. Tough, charming, determined, and cool as snow on a mountaintop."

"And a Deltan."

Her violet gaze tightened into a frown. "Don't let that stop you, Jim. Her Oath of Celibacy is on file with my office. As a StarFleet officer, she would never be foresworn. Besides, she is a member of a Deltan relationship group, and seems quite content. She says that sex with humans is unimaginative, whatever that means." She tapped a finger alongside her angular chin. "Captain Forell of the _Resolute_ will not be happy if you snatch her up, but it's time, she deserves it, and he wouldn't hold her back. You would, of course, promote her to captain's rank, wouldn't you?"

Kirk shook his head. "I don't just give rank away, Kitaza. I would have to see what she's capable of before I'd do that."

Kitaza nodded and her smile was sweet. "Good. That's always preferable." As they got into the lift, she added, "Let me know how the meeting turns out and I'll expedite the paperwork."

Kirk agreed, bemused and a little alarmed at how quickly things moved at Central. He had always been of the opinion that the "paper pushers" moved as slow as possible, and out in space, it had felt that way. But not now; now he felt like he was scrambling to catch up.

Sitting down with Dreer a few minutes later, he started giving orders. "I want to meet with every analyst we have, top down, beginning today. Continue with the 0800 meetings of Ops staff, including the Master Chief Petty Officer, Information Plans and Strategy, Strategy and Policy, Fleet Readiness and Logistics, Supply & Ordinance, Combat Logistics, Combat Personnel, and the Fleet Surgeon . . . I think that's all of them."

"Aye, sir."

"And I want you to review three possible candidates from the War Academy to sit in on my staff meetings."

Dreer tilted his head slightly to the side. "Are we changing our defensive footing, admiral?"

Jim didn't prevaricate. "We may need to in a great big hurry. If we do, I want to be prepared. I also want a contact within Logistics and Innovation, and Combat Intelligence. Go through their admiral's offices, and let them give us a name."

"Yes, sir. Anything else?"

He looked around the office. All of his personal effects had been moved from the deputy's office and into this one, and placed in comparable positions. Various holos, models of _Enterprise_ , his prized paper books, and his wall plaque of Barnard 33, the Horsehead Nebula located 1500 light years from Earth and within the larger Orion Nebula, hung on the wall before him.

"Is there any non-resynthed coffee?"

Dreer gave a real smile for the first time since he'd met him. "In my office, sir. Always fresh, always hot, from an ancient pot that must have first seen action when the CINC was a boy."

"You like it that much?"

"Can't stand it, sir. But Admiral Stearns would have bathed in it if he could have."

Jim laughed. "Given his schedule, I can understand that." He got up to walk around SSO and get a cup of that coffee, before his 0800 staff meeting.

 

 

Spock had decided to give his students a simple quiz to determine if they had been able to comprehend the concepts that Bader and Randile had been attempting to impart while he had been out of the academy.

He was at his desk that afternoon grading them, when Turlofsky and Randile requested entry. Turlofsky himself was a short, balding, paunchy human of indeterminate age, while Randile was an Andrasian from the Cygnus Cluster, a member of a plant-derived species. Randile's body was shaped in the form of a bulb, the arms leafy stubs with delicate fern-like fingers, while its legs were roots and hidden beneath the green downy covering to the feet. Its eyestalks rose above a pale green and rounded head, the mouth a slash of an opening without teeth. It moved forward with an odd shuffling pedal motion.

"Spock!" Bader greeted, "Welcome back! And not a moment too soon. If I had to have one more class with those monsters in astrophysical anomalies, I would have shot myself with a phaser."

"You exaggerate, Bader." Its mouth did not move, but a reedy voice came from the voco-translator strapped to Randile's chest.

The Terran shrugged his wide shoulders. "Not by much."

"I have been testing my students. Thus far I am not satisfied with the results."

"Without you around to crack the whip they decided to take a break, I guess," Turlofsky grumbled.

Spock let the colorful language go past without comment. "And you? Are your classes progressing as you expect?"

Randile buzzed, which was its version of laughter and brushed its ferns against Bader's arm. "I am satisfied. Bader says most of the students are lazy and libidinous, whatever that means."

Turlofsky walked around Spock's newly decorated office with an admiring nod. "It's nice to have friends in high places."

"Bader! Don't be rude," Randile chastised. "He's just jealous, Spock. Rahne's been promising she would have his office redone for years, but it hasn't happened. Probably because they would have to find the floor before they could start."

Spock remembered the appearance of Turlofsky's space. It was cluttered, to say the least.

"For a palm frond, you're pretty funny," Bader replied flatly. He turned to Spock. "Have you heard from the dean about, y'know, the accusations against you?"

"I have learned nothing further."

Bader moved closer to his desk and sat down. "I have. Apparently, Pinar and his crony, Janos Berry, wrote up the ethics complaints because the Brain Trust changed advisors. Jacob Aster vamoosed from Pinar, and the Winslows left Berry to shift to you as an advisor. That's the basis for their complaints. They say they believe that you used, and I quote, "subtle Vulcan mental techniques" to get them to switch. Rahne agrees that its bunkum, but she had to go through with the procedures or else Pinar will go to his brother, who is a Federation senator and much smarter than he is. Whether anything would come of that is unknown, but Rahne won't risk it."

"Has she spoken with Jacob, Peter, and Payton?"

"Yes. But they'll have to repeat their testimony in front of the Ethics Committee, in order to make this go away."

Spock sat back, crossing his arms against his chest. "And when these charges are found to be fraudulent? Will Pinar and Berry be censured?"

Randile's translator refused to convert his sounds to intelligible Standard.

"He doubts it," Bader admitted. "And for a plant, he can get pretty mad about things."

"And you? Do you also doubt that the committee will agree to censure?"

"I'm not sure," Bader said with an apologetic smile. "Pinar's a bully. I wouldn't put it past him to try and intimidate the committee or the boys themselves."

"I would not violate a being's mind without dire cause. And if I had done what they accuse me of, a cascade effect would most likely occur in that individual, causing a most noticeable change in the entirety of their behavior as the mind attempted to circumvent whatever manipulation had been done."

"His argument is that you did change their behavior and that was why they chose to switch advisors."

Spock blinked slowly, disbelieving. "And what would be my motivation for such base treachery?"

Bader shrugged again. "I certainly haven't been able to think of one. It's obvious to anyone rational that Pinar is jealous and wants to embarrass you publicly."

"I have neither spoken to, nor formally met Dr. Pinar, or his associate, Dr. Berry. I know that were present at the first roundtable meeting of the semester, but they did not introduce themselves."

"No doubt they thought you should have introduced yourself to _them_ ," Randile grunted, but the translator could not adequately display his aggravation, and his eyestalks waved fiercely in distress. "Arrogant bastards. . . ." The translator sqwauked and beeped in mechanical frustration, unable to interpret the remarks that followed.

"Calm down, old thing, calm down," Bader soothed, catching a leafy appendage and stroking it softly between thick fingers. "We'll fix his hash, don't you worry. Pinar's been allowed to ride rough over too many people for far too many years. It's time it ended.

His leafy color deepening in anger, Randile chirped his way out, his shuffling more abrupt and awkward than before. Bader followed with a wave to Spock, and a muttered, "We'll talk more later," tossed over his shoulder in parting.

Spock sat a moment, considering. If Pinar had such difficulty with a humanoid entity, how had he dealt with Randile or Wryaleth? It would behoove him to know more of these men who were attempting to sully his reputation with their accusations.

Jim would say that it was time "to turn the tables on them."

And he would have been right.


	5. Chapter 5

Commander Halin gazed at him with clear, sapphire-blue eyes, and without hesitation said, “No.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She sighed slightly, shifted her position in the chair, and repeated, “No, sir, I do not want to be considered for the position of Deputy Director of Operations.”

Jim Kirk blinked, looked down at his desktop for a moment and then back at the woman. “May I ask why not?” He’d done his best to sell her on what they were doing, the important work, the necessity of the SSO, the possibility of promotion....

“I didn’t join Starfleet to sit behind a desk. Sir.” She was impeccably polite, sharply intelligent, and very attractive, but Kirk was utterly immune to her beauty. What he wanted was a crackerjack administrator, someone who had been out there too, and knew what captains faced.

He couldn’t help but chuckle. She sounded so much like him, he had to smile. “I can’t argue the point, commander, but I think you would be a valuable asset.”

She frowned at him, assessing his tone. “And you’re going to make it an order, aren’t you, sir?”

Kirk had always trusted his gut. “I am, Halin. I’ll be putting through the paperwork as soon as you leave.”

She twisted her mouth up into a remarkably unattractive moue of disgust. “Aye, sir.”

“Anything else you’d like to say, commander?”

“Nothing that wouldn’t get me brought up on charges of insubordination. Sir.” 

Her tone was sour, but it didn’t faze him a bit. If anything, he liked her boldness. “Very well. Your orders will be cut immediately. Do you need time to wrap up your affairs on the Resolute?”

“No, sir. As a Deltan, I’m not allowed to have any. That dratted oath of celibacy, you see.”

And she had a sense of humor. Even better. He didn’t blush, as she no doubt wanted him to. “I’m bonded to a Vulcan myself.”

Her shock was real; blue eyes as dark as the ocean widened, and her hands grasped the armrests of her chair. “But they’re so . . . so . . . inflexible,” she finally managed to say. “And you’re Human. A Terran.”

Halin made it sound like he was just barely this side of an amoeba on the evolutionary scale. “Wait until you meet him and then make up your mind,” he advised gently.

“Yes, sir,” she said, but he could hear her doubts.

“Dismissed.”

As she got to her feet and left his office, he smiled, and realized he was looking forward to working with her. He had never done well with people who fawned all over him; there was no doubt in Kirk’s mind that Commander Halin would allow herself to be roasted over a slow flame before she condescended to flatter his ego. He contacted Kitaza and asked her to expedite the transfer orders from Resolute to Ops.

Kirk called Captain Forell to advise him personally that he was pilfering his exec. As he was completing the call, Dreen entered his office, his mobile face smiling.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“A personal call for you, sir, from Iowa.”

“Patch it through.” He recognized the code when the call came through. Mom. Damn, I forgot to call her. She’s got to be mad she had to hear about my promotion on the newsfeed.

But it wasn’t his mother. Peter Kirk sat before him, his face strangely grown-up. For some reason Jim still expected the small boy he had rescued from Deneva every time he saw him.

“Hi, Uncle Jim. Sorry to bother you.”

Kirk smiled. “You’re never a bother, Peter. How are you?”

“I’m okay, but I’m not calling about me. It’s Gran. She’s sick.”

 

Peter James Samuel Kirk sat by his grandmother’s bedside at the Jones Regional Medical Center, nervously fingering the sheet. Audra Kirk lay quietly, motionless except for her steady breathing. The sensors on the wall kept track of her heart rate, respirations, and blood pressure, all on the very low end and most of the indicators were in the red. It was odd to see her so still; Gran was normally a dynamo in jeans and boots, striding around the farm and the house, running it all smoothly, seamlessly. She was the bedrock of his life and had been ever since his mom, dad, and two brothers had died on Deneva when he was thirteen.

He didn’t allow himself to remember that year very often. The last six months on Deneva had been a blur of pain and fear. He still had night terrors that left him shaking and crying for hours afterwards, though he tried hard not to let Gran know. With the creature inside him, directing his movements, he couldn’t even properly grieve when Dad and the boys had died. And to lose Mom, too . . . it was more than he could stand. He hadn’t been able to say good-bye to any of them. Peter couldn’t imagine how his brothers had died and he didn’t allow himself to think about it. Therapy had helped, but there were some memories he could never permit himself to dredge up.  
If not for Uncle Jim being there, saving his life and helping him to grieve, teaching him how to get a handle on the anger and hate and making it possible for him to go to Earth and live with Gran, Peter didn’t know how he would have survived.

At seventeen, he was in his senior year of high school and preparing for college. He’d made up his mind a long time ago as to what he wanted to do. His gift was linguistics, a talent he had nurtured ever since he could talk. He planned on leaving Iowa, and following his gift, learning everything he could, and then doing some good with it. He and Matt, his foster-brother, had often talked deep into the night, discussing what they wanted from the future. Matt was satisfied with Earth and intended to remain on the farm, but he planned on going to college at Mount Mercy University in Cedar Rapids, and then to a veterinary school.

Peter knew his own road would not be found in Iowa. He had his plans, though he hadn’t mentioned them to anyone yet. He looked back at his grandmother. She was so pale, and he was abruptly terrified. A chill wave of fear washing over him as he realized he could be left alone again. If something happened to Gran, he’d lose Matt, too. Who would run the orchards and the farm? Could he even keep them? What would Uncle Jim do?

Nervous energy brought him to his feet, and he walked around the small, clean, antiseptic room, his big feet, clad in work boots, squeaking on the tiled floor. He’d come straight from school to the house to the hospital, and the doctor hadn’t come in yet. He had managed to call Uncle Jim after his last class, but doubted he’d be able to be here that quickly. He was busy, and trips to Iowa had been few and far between. Peter was the man of the family at the moment, the realization of which only made his hands sweat more.

Peter knew he looked older than he was because of his size. He was 6’4” in socks and no matter how much he ate, he looked too skinny. Years of farm work had given him a physique designed for heavy lifting, and he was much stronger than he appeared. He wondered if his alarm showed on his face; he hoped not. It was one thing to be wracked with anxiety and quite another to let others see it.

He stepped out into the hall, his stomach grumbling. He’d missed dinner because he wanted to hang around for the doctor to learn something, anything, about his grandmother’s condition. The nurses smiled at him sympathetically, but they couldn’t do anything to help, besides repeat, “Dr. Trent will be here soon.”

As far as he was concerned, Dr. Trent could go drown himself. That is, after he came here and told Peter exactly what was wrong with his Gran. He looked in on her again from the hall. So still. . . .

When he looked back down the corridor for the hundredth time, he saw his uncle, Mr. Spock, and another man quickly and purposefully striding towards him, their Star Fleet uniforms standing out against the grey-green walls. Relief swept through him and he sagged against the wall, glad it was holding him up enough that he looked upright.

Uncle Jim grasped his hand, and then pulled him into his arms, hard. “It’s all right, Peter. Dr. McCoy is going to take a look at Mom and let us know what’s going on.”

Peter smiled and shook the doctor’s hand, remembering him from the ship, and nodded to Spock, knowing better than to touch him. “I didn’t think you’d be able to get away.”

“A family emergency supersedes anything else on my plate,” Uncle Jim assured him, but his hazel eyes were tense with the same kind of worry he remembered seeing when he was a kid. He grasped Peter’s arm tightly for a moment, and then walked past him to enter the hospital room. Dr. McCoy moved to the Nurses’ Station, and Mr. Spock remained with him.

“I don’t know what happened,” he said, voice soft and low. “She was making breakfast yesterday morning, like always. She didn’t say anything was bothering her. . . .” He shifted, moving, always moving. “She’d had a cold for a week or so and seemed kind of tired. Gran was laughing at something Matt had said, and then she stopped suddenly, staring off into space for a minute or two. We called her name, but she didn’t respond. The next thing I knew she had dropped the bowl of pancake batter and was falling on the floor.” He looked at Spock, finding soothing calm in his dark, sympathetic eyes. “I was so scared. I was afraid she was dead. I called for help, and emergency workers came and took her away. She hasn’t woken up since then, and the doctors don’t tell me anything. I knew she’d be mad if I called Uncle Jim, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You showed great presence of mind, Peter,” Spock said, his deep voice serene. “You did the right thing in contacting your uncle. He would have been greatly annoyed had you not done so.”

“I’m not ready for her to go yet.” His voice was just a whisper and he didn’t expect Spock would hear it.

“We are never prepared to lose those we really love, Peter. Dr. McCoy will do all that he can to prevent your grandmother’s death.”

“But what is it? What’s wrong with her? And why won’t anyone tell me anything?”

When Uncle Jim came out of Gran’s room, he moved to the doctor, who held a data padd in his hand, and was quickly isolating the information he wanted. He looked at them and smiled gently, his blue eyes obviously concerned. “It’s bad, but it’s not that bad. She’s infected with Hendra virus. At the moment, she’s in a coma, but she’s been loaded up with ribavirin, and is breathing on her own.”  
“Doesn’t that come from infected horses?” Uncle Jim asked, a deep frown cutting across his face.

“That’s what my research tells me,” Dr. McCoy replied. “The Iowa CDC will need to check all the people and the horses at your mom’s ranch.”

“How dangerous is it?”

MCoy pointedly looked at Peter.

Uncle Jim said, “Peter, I need to talk with Dr. McCoy about Gran. Would you give us a few minutes?”

“I want to know,” he insisted. “Don’t send me away. You’ll be going back to San Francisco and I’ll be here, with Gran, taking care of her. I need to know what to expect.”

Uncle Jim looked at Spock, who nodded, then he looked at Peter and moved closer to him. “Go ahead, Bones. Tell us.”

“There’s a sixty-five percent mortality rate with this disease. Most people don’t know they have it until the headache from encephalitis begins. When she was admitted, she presented with the flu, which was quickly followed by drowsiness and confusion. This morning she fell into a coma, and the convulsions started. Trent ran the correct tests and started her on ribavirin as soon as he had the serum culture results.”

“Does that mean she’ll be okay?”

“We don’t know yet, Peter,” Dr. McCoy said. “She could come out of this without any problems. Then again, she could have some residual neurological problem, like continued convulsions or deafness. There’s no way to know until she wakes up.”

“Could Matt have it too?” he asked.

McCoy nodded. “Everyone at the ranch will have to be tested.”

“And the infected horse? It’ll have to be put down, won’t it?”

“I’m afraid so. It’ll remain a carrier and continue to infect people otherwise.”

“I’ve never heard of this—what did you call it? Hendra?”

“Yes. It originally came from Australia, and it’s pretty rare.”

Uncle Jim turned to him. “Did you get any new horses in recently?”

Peter shrugged. “I’m sorry, Uncle Jim; I don’t keep track. That’s more Matt’s thing than mine.”

“Of course,” he agreed with a smile. “Bones, anything we can do here?”

“Not really. Dr. Trent is following accepted protocol, and she’s in ICU in the event her condition changes for the worse. I’ll stay and meet with Trent.”

“Good. Thanks, Bones. I should go to the ranch and let everyone know what’s going on. You’ll call Disease Control?”

“I’ll take care of it, if Trent hasn’t done it already. Spock can take blood samples,” the doctor said, handing over his tricorder to the Vulcan, “and bring them back to me so we can test your family and those people you may think are in danger of being infected.”

Spock nodded in agreement.

Uncle Jim said, “Right. It’s now 2000 hours CST. Bones, contact me with any changes. Come on, Peter, we have work to do.”

After a few minutes with Gran, Peter followed his uncle and Spock down the hall, to the lift, and into the admiral’s Star Fleet shuttlecraft.   
He’d never been inside one this big before, and as he strapped himself in, he looked around it. Uncle Jim sat in the pilot’s seat, with Spock by his side. He could tell by the ease of their movements that they’d done this a thousand times before, their practiced motions and quiet voices communicating what they needed to know, as they went through a checklist before taking off.

The shuttlecraft went higher than any aircar he’d ever been in, whipping through the clouds with the speed of a meteor. Though he was worried about Gran and Matt and pretty much everybody, he couldn’t help but look through the wide front windows and admire the view from up here. He strained a little, moving as far forward as the straps would let him.

“Come on up, Peter. Ever been in a shuttle before?”

“Not in a long time, sir,” he replied, fiddling with the harness before launching himself out of the seat. He knelt down by Uncle Jim, better able to see that way. “Rad,” he mumbled, checking out the impressive instrumentation, before watching the earth go by far below. “How long will it take us to get to the ranch?”

“It is only thirty-nine-point-seven miles, and we will be arriving at the ranch in five-point-four minutes,” Spock advised, his hands secure on the instruments, smoothing adjusting their angle of flight and communicating with local air-traffic control.  
Peter blinked. “It takes me a half-hour just to get home from school.”

“Yes, but you’re on the ground, with more traffic than we’ll find up here,” Uncle Jim advised with a soft smile. “One of the advantages of flying for ‘Fleet.”

“I don’t get it.”

“The Admiral means that his shuttle receives the fastest and least congested routes because he is in Star Fleet, which has priority over private air travel,” Spock replied, already beginning their descent.

“Oh.” 

Everything went a little fast for Peter after that. Uncle Jim and Spock started issuing orders the moment they landed: the health control officers showed up and started taking blood from everybody, the poor deaf white horse was taken away to be painlessly put down, and the hands started to scrub every inch of the stables as the rest of the horses were brought to a field for each of them to be tested for the virus.

Matt was running here and there, soothing horses, directing the men who worked for them, and stopping only long enough to have his blood taken, eat a quick sandwich Peter thrust at him, and swallow black coffee with the rest of the men when they took a break.  
Peter had always known that Matt would take care of the ranch; Gran had been quite honest about it all. She said that Uncle Jim had “outgrown” Iowa, that he loved it and them, but Monticello wasn’t his home anymore. She’d been irritable about Peter’s desire to leave Iowa to go to school; they were still arguing about it, but he had made up his mind a long time ago. With Matt here, Peter could be comfortable knowing that Gran wouldn’t be on her own, and he would only be a call away.

As he watched his brother in all but blood move confidently amongst the huge animals that followed him like overgrown dogs, he had to smile. The Matt Barnes who had come to them a few years ago was not the guy he saw now. Though quiet and shy in most groups, Matt was comfortably in his element here. The abuse he had suffered at his father’s hands was a thing of the past, but the scars on his body would never be erased. The doctors could have lasered them away, but Matt, like Peter, had refused; the marks on their flesh were more than damaged skin, discolored evidence of imperfection or pain—they were visible signs that they had known anguish and agony and had survived, overcoming the hurt, outlasting it. If they had been twins, their thoughts on this point could not be more alike. And because they had lost so much, they held on to what they had with ferocious tenacity. Matt would stand up for Peter, if not for himself, while Peter would beat the crap out of anyone who even looked at Matt cross-eyed. They were brothers now, deeper than bone and blood.

It was nearly dawn the next morning when everything that needed to be dealt with was done. The ranch was empty of everyone but the family and the few hands that slept in the bunkhouse near the barn. Uncle Jim and Spock were standing in the kitchen, sipping coffee, and talking quietly, while he and Matt sat by the table, half-asleep, but still too anxious to sleep. Dr. McCoy had called and said that Gran was holding her own and wasn’t any worse.

Peter was tired; he pillowed his head on his arms and to the sounds of his Uncle and Spock talking, fell asleep.

 

The next evening Spock walked through the barn, idly petting the horses, and making certain all was as it should be. Though Matthew was a remarkably thorough and attentive manager of the ranch, he was still young, and required assistance. Jim was at the hospital with Audra, who had just awakened from her coma and was apparently quite confused. McCoy was with him, following-up on Audra’s care. He would have preferred her being moved to a Fleet hospital, but until she stabilized, it would have been too dangerous a trip. Jim had not slept at all last evening, and had returned to Fleet Central to work, as had Spock, before traveling home again. Spock could see this as the pattern of their days until Audra was well enough to return to her residence. When she would be sufficiently fit to continue her work with the horses was a question he could not answer and neither could McCoy.

The house was quiet when he entered the kitchen to find McCoy there, working on a data padd and sipping coffee. He looked up, blue eyes tired and welcoming at the same time. “Thought you were in bed.”

“Soon,” Spock admitted. “Will Jim return tonight?”

“I don’t think he or Peter want to leave Audra right now. They had one hell of a scare.” McCoy dropped the padd and gestured. “Sit down. Before we have another emergency on our hands, we should chat.”

Spock stifled the sigh that wanted to emerge from his chest, but did as he was bid. “I am well, Leonard, as your frequent scans have no doubt informed you.”

“Yes, your body is well on its way to full recovery. You’ll be lifting aircars with one hand before long. That’s not what we’re discussing though, is it?”

If McCoy had wished, he could have been one of the most gifted psychiatrists his planet had ever given to the universe. Spock found that inherent talent irritating and intrusive, but it could never be flouted. To disregard the subtleness of the man’s acumen was imprudent; it was a rash being indeed who forgot it.

“I let you off the hook for a while. Now it’s time.”

“Is there a specific incident you wish to discuss?”

McCoy let out a tired breath. “Prevarication. Interesting.”

Spock felt his eyebrow go up. When the doctor used only single words, he was analyzing at his greatest potential, and was most . . . dangerous. “You wish to review my recent Time.”

The Human said nothing, patiently waiting.

“I . . . I feel . . . satisfied. Complete. The bond between Jim and myself is strong, well-formed. His emotions are clear to me . . . understandable in context.”

“Qualms?”

“None for myself. For him . . . a few.”

“Such as?”

Now he hesitated. While Jim had spoken of this with McCoy, he was finding it far more difficult to broach the subject.

The doctor waited, sipping occasionally from his coffee cup, unhurried, unflappable. It was one of his greatest skills, the ability to drain all his surface emotions to this calm, cool, even serene, aspect. Like expressing oneself to an inanimate object.

“Jim is fearful of . . . his own sexuality with regards to me.”

“A lot of words to say something simple, Spock.”

This time he did sigh. “He wants my dominance, but fears it . . . what it reveals about him.”

The doctor raised a hand. “Trust that I know all about Jim and his psychology. The question is: What does it say about you?”

Spock frowned. “Me?”

“Yes, Captain. You.”

“I do not understand this line of inquiry.”

McCoy rubbed a hand across his face. “Exactly my point. You are an admittedly superior Vulcan sublimating himself to a Human in every way but this. Why?”

“I choose to follow Jim.”

“Uh-hmm; that’s another issue entirely. And in bed?”

“He . . . enjoys . . . my control of him. It is a need he is apparently unaware of.”

McCoy smiled. “Oh, he’s aware of it. He just doesn’t like that he wants it so badly. But even that is not the point at the moment.” The doctor waited again, saying nothing.

“Is there further information you require?”

“Yes.”

“Which is?”

McCoy sharply rapped his knuckles on the table. “What does it say about you, Spock? You. Not Jim. Not me. Not anyone else. YOU.”

For some reason, he felt alarm, a sensation he did not wish to evaluate further. Falling back on the rational, he murmured, “It was my time. Vulcans are known to be aggressive during Pon Farr—”

“Blah, blah, blah! You, Spock. The individual.”

He licked his lips, a nervous gesture he immediately abated, only to frown. 

“Stop thinking. Just say what comes.”

It was an effective technique that McCoy only occasionally proposed. “He is mine.”

“Yes.”

“I want . . . him to understand that.”

“What else?”

“I-I . . . need . . . him to yield to me. To know that he does not command me everywhere. That I am his equal.”

McCoy blew out a long breath. “Yes, Spock. Yes. His equal. In different ways, but just as strong, just as smart, just as stubborn.”

He felt tired, suddenly, and blinked, bringing a hand up to rub at burning eyes.

“Enough for now,” the doctor muttered. “Go to bed. Meditate on it. We’ll talk again.”

“Again?” He would prefer to be beaten by spiked clubs.

McCoy smiled. “You’re all right, Spock. You’re just a little dense sometimes.”

Affronted, he sat up, and then stood up. “Good night, doctor.”

“Night, Spock. Sweet dreams.”

“Vulcans do not dream.”

A loud guffaw followed him as he made his way upstairs, and a slight smile curved his lips. Leonard was an excellent physician, but an even better friend.

 

Kirk swallowed a large gulp of coffee and reviewed the SSO screens. Good god, he was tired. It had only been days since the beach house, but he felt pummeled and achy all over. Between flying back to Iowa every night, visiting with his mom, and worrying over her condition, he was exhausted. Thankfully, over the past week, her condition had turned, the confusion had faded, and as of last night, she seemed to be turning the corner.

Halin stood at his side, whatever dislike she held for her new assignment completely concealed. She wasn’t a talker; he liked that, because when she did speak it was to bring important issues to light. The commander was tactically sharp, and as careful as a surgeon with her use of language, which could be used as either a bludgeon or a whip, depending on the circumstance.

“There goes Resolute, off to the Rim,” she said wistfully.

“Wave bye-bye, Commander,” he said absently. “We have bigger fish to fry. I am looking forward to reading her reports on broaching the Rim again,” Kirk admitted. “Though it was terrifying the first time I did it, I wouldn’t mind knowing what lurks beyond.”

He looked up in time to see her shut her eyes against the frustration that welled in both of them at being left at the dock. When they opened, the sapphire-blue orbs were calm and determined. Kirk knew she’d be back on a ship as soon as she could manage it. Time he hooked her into the heartbeat of Fleet; maybe then she wouldn’t miss it so much. It hadn’t worked for him that well so far, but he kept hoping.

“Academy training ship Atlas is shipping out at 0800 tomorrow, sir,” Dreer reminded from his usual position to Kirk’s right and behind. “Shall I put together a few words?”

“I think I can manage to say something stultifyingly boring, Falan, thank you.”

Halin chuckled. “After a few dozen, you might want to have him write them, sirl. Boring is one thing, repetitive and boring altogether something else.”

“Thank you so much for your confidence, commander,” he told her dryly. “Maybe you’d like to do a few of them, too? Falan, add the commander’s name to the schedule.”

She groaned, but said nothing more. He watched the screens, noting ships movements and not finding anything more dangerous then there had been two hours before. Returning to his office, he continued to go through an absolutely mindboggling amount of paperwork before cutting loose for the evening.

He called his mom for the fourth time that day. She took one look at his face, grimaced, and hung up on him. As much as she loved him, there was no doubt Audra Kirk was finished with being sick and had warned him she’d hang up if he called again that day. Tough lady, his mom.

Stretching, Kirk realized he wanted nothing more than a drink, a shower, maybe a little cuddling with his favorite Vulcan and a backrub, before getting some serious shuteye.

 

Spock felt the snap and pop of the tendons in his neck, and realized that due to the time constraints he and his th’y’la had been under this week, neither of them had been to the gym, nor had Spock had the opportunity to meditate for longer than the minutes allowed between Jim’s shower in the morning and their falling into bed at night.

Audra Kirk had been transferred to her home today, McCoy reported, his expression one of quiet weariness. Such was to be expected. The three of them had been traveling back and forth from the Dancing Horse Ranch to their residences and responsibilities here in San Francisco for days, as Jim did not want to leave the two young men alone while Audra recuperated in hospital. She had come out of her coma the evening after they had arrived, and while there were some neurological deficits to be considered, including continued epileptic seizures, McCoy spoke highly of her cheerful acknowledgement of the danger she had faced and appreciation for his care. Actually, he said, “She’s surprised she’s still kicking and thinks it’s my fault.” As for Jim, he had been serious and single-minded in making certain that he was available for his nephews, and his mother, while meeting his obligations to Star Fleet, spreading himself, as McCoy put it, “a little thin.”

Unfortunately, that left Spock with a bondmate who was rarely with him, except when he slept, which was not conducive to continued harmony. Now that Audra had returned to her residence and was under medical supervision, Jim would be able to relax and perhaps regain his balance. There had been so much to do, so many changes, that Kirk was struggling. And Spock admitted that he was feeling the strain as well. Usually after the rigors of pon farr a couple would slowly adjust to their normal lives, not hasten to amass greater stress upon an already traumatic time. But as he had come to learn, the universe did not wait until one was prepared; it hurried along at a pace it alone set, and all they could do was accept the unavoidable and master the emotional, two essential tenets of Vulcan ideology.

When Spock returned to their residence that afternoon, he immediately changed his clothes to something more appropriate and settled before his firepot. Weary and encumbered with thoughts and emotions he had previously been unable to sort and dispose of during meditation, he was gratified to find that he slipped into the deeper levels of his psychic stratum without difficulty, and was soon enmeshed within his own consciousness. It was the most satisfying sensation he had ever known, outside the tumultuousness of orgasm. Peace pervaded his whirling thoughts as irritations and annoyances were satisfactorily torn into their composite pieces and destroyed; unwanted negative emotions were analyzed and dissected, their causes reviewed and isolated. . . .

When Jim finally returned to their home that evening, Spock had gained his center once more and projected a peaceful, soothing presence to his bondmate. He could immediately see that his love was very tired, his beautiful eyes shadowed and dark, handsome face pale and drawn. Without a word, Spock drew Jim into the bedroom, and helped him remove his clothes.

“Anything from Bones?” he asked.

“Nothing further since Audra’s return to the ranch.”

Jim gave a wan smile. “She’s threatened to turn off the vid if I call her one more time today; she already hung up on me.”

Spock nodded, and caressed Jim’s now-naked shoulders with light fingers. A shiver ran through them both at the touch. Kirk’s smile was soft. “I missed you,” he said.

While that was paradoxical, since he had only seen Jim that morning, he understood that they had been too busy to be much more than roommates for the past week. “And I, you.” He continued to undress his bondmate until he was naked. While part of him wished only to feast upon his lover’s body, he hesitated, knowing Jim was exhausted.

He canted his head, a soft smile on his lips. “Why’d you stop?”

“You are tired, t’hy’la.”

“I know you want to touch me, Spock. I feel . . . I feel. . . .”

He seemed frustrated at being unable to describe his desire. “I am here, beloved.” With swift fingers, Spock slid out of his own clothes, while Jim slipped back onto the bed, lying on top of the covers, head resting against the pillows while he watched him remove the last article.

“God, you are beautiful,” Jim whispered, his voice husky and thick.

Spock looked down at himself, assessing. “My body is entirely serviceable.”

A chuckle erupted from Jim’s chest. “That’s not what I said or meant, but I guess that’s what you heard. Come here.”

Jim was cool and heavy against him, as Spock lay back with him on top. “Of the two of us, you are the more beautiful.”

“Agree to disagree on that score, t’hy’la,” Jim insisted softly, one hand coming to rest on his chest, brushing the hair there with restless fingers.

Spock involuntarily smiled. “You have not called me that before.”

“Haven’t I?”

“No.”

Jim shrugged against him and didn’t say anything in reply. Spock thought he had gone to sleep when a voice came out of the silence. “I need you.”

“I am here.”

Jim shifted against him. And then did it again.

“Have I misunderstood?” Spock asked, certain he knew what it was his lover wanted, but unwilling to make an error here.

“No, of course not. You’re always this dense,” Jim snapped suddenly, his tone acid. He turned away from Spock, and curled on his side, back to him, lovely cheeks presented enticingly. “Good night.”

Another smile graced Spock’s lips. Even a month ago, Jim’s behavior would have confused him beyond all measure and he would have been offended by his actions. Now, he understood it for what it was: a mute plea to be ravished, overwhelmed, made to submit. 

Having learned more about his own sexuality through the fires of the plak tow, Spock had no difficulty in accessing that part of himself now. He no longer feared that passion that was a significant aspect of his psyche, his inner warrior confident in its ability to please his mate. In moments he was aroused, and hungry for Jim’s body.

He left the bed for a time, ensuring the door was locked, dimmed or closed the lighting, lit candles, and retrieved a few articles from the bedside drawer. By the time he returned to their bed, Jim was nearly asleep and totally unprepared for Spock to climb into their bed, wrap his arms around him, and flip him onto his back. He pressed his hips to Jim’s, quickly thrusting a knee between Kirk’s own to spread him.

The hazel eyes opened wide. “What the hell—!”

“I will not be ignored, bondmate. You mistake gentleness for passivity, apprehension for impotence, tenderness for weakness,” he whispered darkly into his human’s ear. “I will remind you of the strength of my hunger, mark it on your flesh so that you will never again forget it.”

Jim’s mouth opened in a grateful sigh, and his golden eyes glittered in the candlelight. “Yes. Yes. Please.”

“Say it.”

“I don’t know what you want to hear,” Jim whispered, his hands reaching out to stroke Spock’s arms; he could feel them trembling against his skin.

Spock opened the link between them fully, Jim’s mind exposed to him. His ardor was as deep as his own, fearful but eager. You do know.  
Jim shivered beneath him.

What would you have me say?

Spock growled low, the rumble emerging from the depths of his chest, and he dropped his head, bending to take hardened nipples into his mouth. Jim wriggled at the pressure he used, but was unable to dislodge him. He nursed deeply, sucking the dark pink buds past his lips, his tongue moving, laving them fiercely, and he used his arms to move Jim’s legs further apart.

Jim fought him, tightening thick thigh muscles, but it was no use. Spock would not be budged, and Jim finally stopped resisting, panting. His organ has hard, pulsing against Jim’s belly, Spock able to feel his hammering pulse through the thin skin of his penis. He switched to the other nipple, pleased to hear Jim’s soft, breathy moans, the way his hands fisted into the sheets, taste the salty dampness of his skin.  
He moved his arms, leaning downwards, rubbing the hard organ against his chest, the hair there catching on the slickness of the ejaculate that wept from Jim’s shaft. His lover cried out, and Spock would have smiled if he could.

Say it, he demanded.

Oh, god, Spock, I don’t know what you want!

He used his teeth on the tortured nub then, biting carefully, just hard enough to make Jim thrash his head against the pillow, and cry out sharply. Jim pushed up against him, rubbing his organ against the stroking hairs that caressed him. In response, Spock pulled away and moved further down his body, brushing his cheek against the hard penis. His beard was abrasive, he knew, but Jim liked the sensation, if the way he panted and whimpered could be trusted, and his lust flowed into the bond. His hands grasped Spock’s head and pushed down, adding pressure until Spock pulled them away. For long minutes, he continued chafing the tender skin, brushing over the head of his penis, until Jim gave a gasp that was a mixture of pleasure and pain before he desisted.

Edging aside the proud column of flesh, Spock thrust his nose against the damp pubic hair, enjoying the scent that he identified as uniquely Jim: pine and wood-smoke, leaving a trace of bitterness on the back of his tongue that he thoroughly appreciated. I love thee, he thought, the emotion so thick and encompassing he felt he might choke from it.

I love you . . . so much, Jim replied, even his mental voice clotted with heat and lust. Is that . . . what you wanted . . . to hear?

You know it is not.

He moved slowly, shifting further down, until his torso wedged Jim’s legs open, and his hands were free to do as he liked. He grasped the hot, aching rod and slid his lips against the wet, throbbing crown of Jim’s penis, his tongue darting out to take more. This was a flavor he would never tire of, and he did not hurry, slaking his thirst for Jim, tasting only the tip, dipping his tongue into the narrow opening and digging for more. Jim thrashed in earnest now, his voice becoming reedy, more desperate.

“Please, Spock . . . please. . . .”

Tell me.

“Ah, gods, please,” Jim begged, and Spock found he was not proof against his lover’s entreaties. Relaxing the oral pharynx took only a moment’s thought before he swallowed Jim to the root. Relishing the way the thick head slid against his palate before pressing forcefully against the back of his throat. He fed there for a long time, driving Jim up, up, until his pleas turned to abject begging and his sac twitched against Spock’s questing palm.

He debated for a moment: take Jim while he begged for mercy or after he had already lost himself in the moment? Ah, but he had not asked yet, and Spock would not grant him bliss until he had.

Ask, he insisted.

He could sense the distracted scramble of Jim’s thoughts, the desperation of his muddled mind to give the answer Spock sought. It was not so difficult, he considered. Only the truth would suffice.

You’re such a bastard, Jim groaned.

On the contrary; I know exactly who my parents are, he countered. ASK!

His th’y’la cursed him then, long and volubly, but Spock continued to tease, refusing to give him release until he admitted what he wanted, how he wanted. Using one hand, he squeezed the tube of lubricant that rested next to them on the bedding, and coated his fingers. If Jim was going to be stubborn, Spock would remind him of the cost of his pride.

He removed his mouth from Jim’s penis, ignoring his now strident complaints, and slid a finger into his anus. It was tight, as he expected, but not as much as it had been, and yielded easily to his long middle finger. Jim gasped out a cry, a howl of undulating need. “Yeeeessss.” The tunnel eased incrementally, granting admission to his forefinger as well.

ASK! Spock insisted. And I will grant your desire.

There was a pause and Spock could feel Jim’s pulse rise ever higher, his temperature rising. Take me, you bastard. Use me any way you want, but fuck me.

Spock stopped teasing and manhandled Jim to where he wanted him. Jim’s legs were over Spock’s shoulders, his well-muscled body bent almost double, his face red and wet with sweat and perhaps tears. Their eyes met, and in Jim’s was a fire Spock had not seen before.  
“Do not look away from me,” Spock insisted, needing to see the green-gold orbs, wanting to see, feel, and hear exactly how his lover accepted him.

In moments, the head of his organ had breached Jim’s body, and slowly, oh so slowly, he began to press deeper. He deliberately moved at glacial speed, not caring if Jim lost control and orgasmed around him. He would give his bondmate exactly what he had requested and then, more.

Jim let out a low groan, but he opened for Spock’s, his body not resisting the heat and power of his larger penis as it undid whatever control Jim had once known. His head thrashed on the pillow, his hands grasping Spock’s arms, planted like tree trunks by his shoulders. Crushed as he was, there was little movement he could make, and in no way could resist the slow advance inside of his opened passage. He did his best not to lose eye contact, but every so often, Jim closed them, panting hard, curled tightly, owned completely.

Finally, when Spock’s sac pressed against Jim’s skin, he gave over control to the demands of his flesh, and began to piston in and out of Jim’s buttocks, all gentleness swept away in their need to get even closer, become one. Almost immediately, Jim orgasmed, his penis spurting thick ropes of semen against his own chest, his neck, even his chin and lips. Spock didn’t slow but continued to thrust, angling himself ever deeper, the crown of his penis brutally slamming against the bud of Jim’s prostate, his cries loud and wild in the silence that surrounded them until all Spock could hear were his panting breaths, the thunder of his own heart, the wet slap of their flesh as they came together, all he could see in the near-darkness was the gleam of Jim’s eyes and smell his seed, and the scent they made together.  
Jim became hard again quickly, his organ still wet from its last emission, his passage, milking Spock so fiercely that he was unable to resist the spiral into bliss, his hands grasping Jim’s, their fingers locked together so tightly they went numb against the force of it when he orgasmed again.

“Th’y’la!” he cried out, unable to suppress the sound that burst from his throat as his seed erupted from his organ, filling Jim deeply, until there was nothing but skin and his cream between them. He remained upright by dint of will; his flesh, weary and shuddering, did not want to obey him, but he managed not to fall on Jim until he had untangled their limbs sufficiently that it would not damage either of them to collapse.

When he roused later, he was stunned to find he had been unconscious for fourteen-point-three minutes, Jim sound asleep beneath him, his breathing slow and labored as part of Spock’s weight was resting on his chest. Rising on unsteady legs, he went to the bathing room to gather wet cloths and towels, returning to wash Jim thoroughly, not surprised he did not stir while he did so. Within minutes he had sketchily bathed himself as well. Before he crumpled into an exhausted sleep, he moved Jim under the coverlet and slid in beside him, a smile he could not remove twisting his lips.


	6. Chapter 6

"Are you out of your southern mind? No, forget I asked that; I know the answer." The medical director held up a manicured hand. "No. I will absolutely not give you permission to take six students to Canopus IV."

"I'm sorry that you feel that way, Brad."

Brad glared at him, lime-green eyes bright and sparkling. "Len, it's too dangerous!"

"Of course it's dangerous! So is life on a starship! How the hell can we ask them to venture life and limb if we won't do it ourselves? What message are we sending? Oh, sure, it's all right to talk a good game, but when it comes down to it, we won't act to save lives and mitigate anguish and pain?" He saw the barb hit home as Brad winced. He lowered his voice. "Canopus IV is in the middle of Panishan plague! Already a quarter of their population is dead, another half is infected. They need all the doctors they can get to handle the sick and dying."

"Len, these men and women are our responsibility. We can't put them in harm's way! They're here to learn, not to volunteer their time to deal with horrific situations."

McCoy gave him a look that would have withered a charging Turgarian. "What is the Federation for if not to help its member planets? And if Fleet doesn't respond, who are we and what are we doing? What are we teaching our students if not compassion?"

By the time Leonard McCoy left the Office of the Chief Medical Officer of the Academy, he had his six volunteers, berths on a starship to take them to the Canopus sector, enough supplies to aide relief efforts on the stricken world . . . and a strict promise that Grant would consider the revisions to the Med/Surg program that McCoy oversaw. He didn't believe it would take more than four to six weeks to deal with the disaster. By then, other emergency aid and relief programs would have followed up on a more long-term basis and he and his team would return home to continue their studies.

Unfortunately, he forgot the one corollary of Murphy's Law: If anything can go wrong it will . . . and anything you try to fix will take longer and cost you more than you think.

 

 

 

Peter watched his grandmother shuffle around the kitchen. While she looked much better than she had when she'd first come home, Gran didn't have the energy she once had, and they were all on the look-out for seizures.

Matt kicked him under the table, and made a funny face, warning him to stop staring.

"Don't bother kicking him, Matthew," Gran muttered, turning away from the coffee-pot with her first cup of the day. "It won't work. Every day since I came home he's been looking at me like he expects me to grow horns or something. Has that happened?"

Matt laughed and it was Peter's turn to grimace at him.

"No, ma'am," the other boy murmured. "It was just kind of scary."

"Yes, well, these things happen," she told them, tousling Peter's hair with one hand and leaning over to kiss Matt's forehead. "You boys did a great job while I was sick. Jim and I are both very proud of you."

Peter bit his lip. He was feeling guilt now that he'd put in his applications for school. To be away from home, leaving Matt alone to deal with his grandmother and the farm, plus college, just didn't seem fair.

Matt rolled his eyes at him. "Would you stop already?" he grumbled when Audra had gone back to her bedroom. "We agreed. I would take care of home. You would solve the problems," he gestured, "out there."

"I know. I just feel guilty."

"The only thing you're guilty of is not telling Uncle Jim the truth."

He pushed his spoon around his cereal. "They haven't accepted my application yet."

"And what happens when they do? Your family name was all over the nets a few months ago. People don't forget that quickly."

Peter frowned. "You think he'll get mad?"

"How would I know? He's your uncle."

"C'mon, Matt, you read people. Whattya think?"

His brother thought about it for a long moment."I think he'll be hurt, not mad. Like Gran, at first. But she came around, and so will he."

"Gran's one thing, but she's been on Earth her entire life. She doesn't know what it's like out there. Uncle Jim does. He was there with me. Then."

Matt didn't say anything, and then asked, "He does knows what it's like, Peter. To want something so badly that you'll work as hard as it takes to get there. He walked away too, when he was young. Couldn't have been easy, leaving home. But he did, and so will you."

"I don't know if I'm good enough," he grumbled. "What if they don't want me? Then what?"

Matt reached over and slugged him, hard, on the arm. "Enough whining! If they don't then you have other options. You can apply again later, after your degree. You can find better recommendations. Hell, you can even ask Spock, if you don't want to ask your uncle. Now come on. We have chores before school, and I'm not doing them by myself while you sit here and stew."

"Okay, okay," Peter agreed, rising and cleaning up the kitchen. Gran's nurse would be in later on this morning to check on her, while they were in school. He put his concerns out of his mind; there was nothing he could do until he received word of his acceptance or rejection.

Soon enough then, to tell Uncle Jim.

 

 

 

Spock had a meeting with Dean Esira at 1100 hours at her office in the Administration Building. Unlike the balance of the academy grounds, this building was meant to be awesome, and in many respects, it succeeded.

The five story granite building jutted onto the square before it at a sharp upward angle, steps leading downwards to its quad. A transparent gangway led from its side to another administration building, and stone pylons had been placed around it to prevent access by aircar. The doors were two stories tall and opened automatically when the sensor was tripped. It was a perfect triangle, Spock noted with an amount of admiration for the engineers. Once inside, the first two floors were accessible to via stairs or lift to visitors, teachers, current students, or those who wished to become students. Every aspect of wall surface was covered with the awards that students or the institute itself had won over the years since its inception. It was a stunning array of prizes and intellect, meant to astonish and amaze.

Spock was not so much astounded as he was amused by the need to exhibit them all. This collection was overstated, indicative of Human need to be considered a member of the intellectual echelons of the VSA, and other similar settings of achievement. He sidestepped the throngs and made his way to the fifth floor, where Dean Esira's office was to be found.

He was disappointed to find that the same desire to be ostentatious was present here. Esira's office was all charming faux-wood and glass, and on every surface were littered untouched journals and scientific papers, none appearing to have even been reviewed. Spock hadn't had the time to look through the recent publications of the Star Fleet Academy Scientific Journal, and now believed it was an oversight he should rectify. There was too much gloss here, and he was concerned that substance would not match it.

Esira's secretary took his name and gestured him to a seat, a tone of condescension sliding into her voice when she spoke with him. "You're early, Captain Spock. The Dean will see you when she is available."

"I am 1.3 minutes early, Ms. . . ."

"Van Dyne," she replied with a tight mouth.

". . . and I am aware that the Dean expects me to be prompt. As I do her. Would you please advise her I have arrived?"

She got up from her chair with a flounce. If he were more than half-Human, he would have been at a loss not to laugh at her childish behavior; as it was, he ignored her poor manners.

Esira followed her secretary out, her smile pleasant and welcoming. "Spock! It is so good to see you. Thanks for taking the time from your busy schedule; how is your bondmate?"

"He is well, Doctor Esira."

"And your father and mother?"

"On Vulcan at present."

"Good, good. Well, come in. Violet, dear, do see that we are not disturbed."

Ms. Van Dyne gave him a stiff smile. "Of course, Dean."

Esira invited him inside of her office and closed the door with a solid thunk. "Was she rude to you, Spock? She's a member of the group supporting Drs. Pinar and Berry through this "difficult time."

Spock did not know what to say to her sarcasm.

She smiled at him. "I know when a Vulcan has his panties in a bunch, Spock. I saw it often enough with your father to recognize it in you. Ignore Violet. She's a simple-minded girl with delusions of . . . I don't know what. As for Pinar and Berry, they're jealous. Plain and simple; I couldn't be more ashamed of either one of them."

"You are aware I did not act unethically--."

She interrupted him with one hand. "Spock. Did you, at any time, in any manner, cause those boys to change advisors?"

"I did not. The decision was their own. I was not aware of it until Drs. Pinar and Berry had made their complaint. I was under the impression that academy students could change their advisors whenever they believed that they were not receiving the advisement they required. Was I incorrect?"

"No. The number and quality of the advisees you have is at issue. You see, for Academy professors it's considered an indicator of status."

"Therefore, my acquisition of the so-called 'Brain Trust' is the problem."

"Yes. And unfortunately, the Academic Board is siding with Pinar; no doubt because of his brother's influence. However, the Fleet Board is siding with you, which overcomes anything that the civilian board may have to say. Ordinarily, that would be that."

"But?"

"Pinar is threatening to resign. And Berry with him."

"Blackmail. How . . . uninspired." Spock's immediate response was one of agreement; they should go, immediately. "It has come to my attention that Dr. Pinar has used his own unethical behavior to distort the actions of other professors, Dean Esira."

She looked at him coolly, unimpressed. "What are you talking about?"

"Are you aware that Pinar, Berry, and four other professors have threatened those teachers who are not Human with any number of criminal complaints? That they have trumped up ethics charges on these beings, to prevent their acting against them? That various incidents of blackmail, extortion, and violence have gone unreported?"

"Nonsense, Spock. I would know if, if such a situation were occurring in my. . ."

Spock let her sputter. He believed that Esira did know and had known all along. It hadn't taken a great deal of computer knowledge to hack into the Academy's computers and compile a list of all non-Human teachers in the past ten years. Or the retention rates of such beings. Or their publication records. "In fact, you knew that Pinar and his associates were plagiarizing the work of their colleagues. And yet, you did nothing."

"I resent that, Spock," she snapped, rising to her feet and twisting her hands together.

"Your resentment is irrelevant. I have proof of this office, if not being partial, at least ignoring their actions. I am curious to know the cause: Why you would aid or abet them? What did you have to gain? There were no financial incentives, your name was not added to any research articles or projects."

She turned a calm gaze on him. "It's very simple, Spock. So much so, that even you should be able to understand it. Your kind don't belong here. You never did."

"My kind?"

"Aliens. Non-Humans."

Spock was nonplussed for a quarter of a second. "I see. A xenobigot in charge of the most important recruiting position in Star Fleet. Remarkable. How did you manage to shroud your activities all these years?"

"I made sure I had scapegoats, like Pinar and Berry, and too many others to count. No one would believe that I was intolerant of other races. Me, Rahne Esira, who had worked with almost every being from the known civilized worlds? Too ridiculous to be considered!"

"Once your work would have mattered to you, not those who were your colleagues. What changed?"

"I changed, Spock. I changed." Her voice was quite matter-of-fact. "When you father chose that doe-eyed cow Amanda Grayson for his wife, I was left with nothing but my career. I wanted to kill her. I wanted to kill him! How could he? And to mingle his genes with hers, to create you? Disgusting."

Spock considered the illogic of that statement. "And if he had bonded you? Would you not have had a child of the same mixed-race parentage?"

"I'm a superior Human, Spock! Our children would have raised the universe to a greater level. But, _no_. He chose her."

"From what he says, I do not believe my father ever saw you in that light, Dr. Esira. You were his colleague, his scientific collaborator, but that was all."

"So much for the conceit that Vulcans can't lie."

The Vulcan could not help but shake his head at her intransigence. Sarek had occasionally admitted that from the first argument he had with Amanda Grayson he had been captivated by her. Rahne Esira had at no time been a rival to his affections. It would not be kind to remind her again of that fact.

He returned to the issue at hand. "I expect your resignation, madam, to be forwarded to the Board by the end of day."

"And if I don't?" she challenged, but he knew it was useless gesture. Rahne Esira had been defeated, years before, by a woman who barely knew she existed.

"I will report your actions to the StarFleet board of review."

She nodded absently and gestured him out, as if it were any other meeting, any other day. "Very well, Spock. You do what you must. As will I."

He turned his head slightly to her as he rose to his feet. "Are you threatening me, Dr. Esira?"

"Good day, Spock."

He left the office considerably more troubled than when he arrived.

_Jim?_

_Here._

_The situation with the dean is as I thought._

_Damn! I'm sorry, Spock. I know you and your father thought highly of her._

_Of her scientific acumen, yes. I would appreciate discussing the situation more thoroughly this evening. It could be that she was threatening me._

He could feel Kirk's sudden tension through the link. _Was she involved with the bomb in your office?_

_It is possible, though no evidence I have been able to gather points definitively in that direction._

_Watch your back._

_Indeed._

_I mean it, Spock. I'm not there. . . ._

Spock understood his admiral's meaning, and finished his thought. _To watch it for me. I will take care, my th'y'la._

_Where are you heading?_

_To my office. I have classes to teach._

_And the evidence against her?_

_Will not be found anywhere she searches for it._

He heard Jim's chuckle. _Of course not._ _Let me know if you need me._

_I always need you, my bondmate._

The gentle purr that seemed to emanate from Kirk's mind was both sensual and loving at the same time. It lifted the hair on the nape of Spock's neck in unquestionable arousal. _Jim_ , he chastised. _I am in public._

_You're a Vulcan, with all that enviable control. Use it._

He stifled the smile that wanted to crease his mouth. He loved Jim's teasing; it had been part of their flirtation since the beginning. _It can be used against you._ He sent vivid mental images of their intimate entwining, both from his own perspective and Jim's. In moments, he could sense Jim's own desire and his breathless anticipation.

_Son of a --! Oh, crap, here comes Nogura!_

Spock swiftly and gently eased his mate's physical distress so that he would not be embarrassed to greet the CINC. Jim sent him thanks and appreciation through their link and then was gone.

He set off to his own office, admiring the early winter day. He was reminded to wear a heavier jacket by the crispness of the air, and strode more quickly to make up for it. Surprised to find the three boys who made up the "Brain Trust" outside of his door, he stopped to question them.

Of the three, it was Jacob Aster who was the most disturbed by what had happened with Pinar and Berry. "I'm sorry to bother you, sir."

"I am not bothered, Mr. Aster. Gentlemen," he greeted the Winslow boys, who appeared upset as well. "Come in."

"What has happened?" he asked once the young men were situated at one of the tables. They had been suitably impressed by Mr. Scott's alterations to his office and had settled quite comfortably at the tables situated for students' use.

Jacob's sapphire gaze caught him, as it always did, with its beauty. His hair was a dark mahogany brown covering a sharply angular face, cut to accentuate high cheekbones. He was less timid than he had been even a few months ago and Spock was pleased by this. Possessed of an unusual intellect and clear grasp of difficult concepts, Aster would make a fine science officer if he chose. But wherever Jacob led, it was certain that the Winslow brothers would not be far away. Initially Peter Winslow had seemed to be the leader of the trio, his acerbic wit and aggressive intellect overshadowing Aster's. However, that was changing, no doubt due to their fellow student's difficulty in dealing socially with Peter. His brother, Payton, his twin, was unfortunately cripplingly shy, but he was easily several levels of intelligence greater than either of the others.

Spock noted the bruising around Payton's cheek, and the slight swelling of his left eye, and repeated, "Payton, what has happened? Were you struck?"

Though violence in what amounted to a military academy was not unusual, any evidence of it outside of the gymnasium was not tolerated. By the slightly shamed expression the youth wore, Spock believed there was more than sparring involved.

"I'm okay, sir," Payton murmured and looked back down at his data padd.

"You are not," Spock insisted, and moved to stand before the boy. "Look at me, Payton."

He bit his lip, but obeyed the order. "Who struck you?"

"It was--"

Spock cut Peter off before he could tell him. "It is not for you to say, Peter," he advised, aware that the brothers were fiercely protective of one another. "Payton. Tell me." He had to learn to stand up for himself if he were to survive the Academy environs.

"Professor Pinar," he finally blurted out. "He's still angry that we changed advisors and wouldn't return to Professor Berry."

"Did you report it?"

Again Peter and Jacob attempted to intervene but Spock would not allow it.

"Payton, did you report it?"

"No."

"Why not? No professor has the right to strike you. Only your tutors in martial arts may hit you in the course of your lessons. Why would allow this to pass?"

"No one would believe it, Captain Spock."

Spock raised a brow. "Do you make a habit of lying?"

"No, sir," Payton replied, appearing affronted by the question.

"Then making a report against a professor who has acted outside his purview is entirely correct. Of what were you fearful?"

"He said that once you were gone, he could do anything he wanted. He said we'd be dismissed because we were alien-lovers."

He looked over at the other boys, seeing various expressions of concern or outright worry.

"Leave that situation with me, gentlemen. I am your advisor; I will make certain that nothing other than your grades impacts your retention." He turned back to Payton. "If you choose not to report the assault, there is nothing further I can say. I would hope, Mr. Winslow, you would have sufficient self-respect not to allow such a situation to re-occur." His tone was cool; he wanted Payton to think about his actions, or lack thereof, and begin to accept his self-worth.

"What would you have done, Captain?" Jacob asked, his attitude one of unusual belligerence.

"I would have made a complaint."

"But he's an important professor!" Peter snapped.

"Indeed. A person supposedly worthy of respect. If he is not, then he should not be treated with any." He turned back to his desk. "I understand that you are young, gentlemen, but such fear is not aligned with your attendance here. Edmund Burke said: "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. The question stands: What kind of men will you be?"

He began to prepare for his next class, leaving them to do their work in silence. Before they all left the room, Jacob came to him. "Thank you, sir." Without another word, they left him alone.

He could only wonder what they were thanking him for.

 

 

 

It was late at night. SSO was quiet, gamma shift tucked in, heads down, working. Dreer and Halin had left hours ago; Kirk was finishing up a report for Nogura and yawning mightily through it. Not that the report was boring; the build-up of the Fleet was continuing at a remarkable pace, and a large class of Academy graduates were in their last year of study.

It was the subterfuge that wore him out. For every report he wrote, another had to be drafted, complaining of insufficient materials, workers, crews; disparaging pre-formulated parts, tensile strengths of materials, the insufficiency of dilithium, etcetera, _ad nauseum_. While Jim enjoyed a good game of hide-and-seek as well as the next man, this was exhausting. But Mitre, head of Intelligence, reminded him often of its necessity. It was vital that their enemies had little to no knowledge of their increase in capability if their feint was to be successful.

He glanced at the holo of Mom, Peter, and Matt that he had received only a few days ago. Mom looked better than she had, but it was going to be a waiting game, to see how well she recovered from the infection. Though not old by Human standards, she wasn't a spring chicken either, and he worried.

Sending the last of his reports, he accessed the site containing _Enterprise's_ refit information, as he did almost every day. He couldn't make himself look at the space dock where she was being decommissioned; it was too depressing. But he enjoyed going through the reports and reviewing the video of engine tests and spatial analyses that Scott and Spock put through. Jim's position at this point was an executive one, but he wanted to know of every line written about her, every concept that was considered and tossed away, or more importantly, kept and why. Given the size of the new ship, hundreds more crew would be working and walking her decks, risking their lives against an inhospitable environment and unknown dangers. He wanted her to be the best ship in Fleet once more, the flagship, a position now delegated to the _Sojourner_ , under the command of Stephen Coralis, a damned fine captain and sober judge of a hazardous situation.

He looked at the screen delineating the Klingon Empire. In the past few days, there had been greater activity between Klinzai, mercenaries, and pirate ships, no doubt carrying cargoes of weapons. The Klingon worlds were resource poor and arable land was of primary importance, which had fueled their intrusion into the space held by other federations. The Romulans had rebuffed them fiercely, so much so that not one ship who had entered their territory returned to tell any tales.

Romulan foray ships had met similar fates in both the direction of the Empire and the UFP. The explorer in Kirk realized that this was not the way to peaceful interaction; only greater knowledge of each other and their needs could establish that. It was, however, a detente of sorts, due to the involvement of the Organian Hierarchy on that parched planet years ago. And while Kirk knew himself well enough to realize he wouldn't mind a battle or two with a certain Klingon commander, he didn't want the fallout from a galactic war. For if the Klingons attacked the UFP in force, Jim held few doubts that the Romulans would not be far behind, leaving the Neutral Zone and leading their own attack on Federation worlds until Earth itself were in danger of being overrun.

"Therein lies the danger."

Kirk looked up from his comp and met the concerned gaze of the being he knew as Ayelbourne. There was no sense of confinement, no dazzling displays of power; the Organian looked as real as Jim himself, dressed in a nondescript suit of modern cut.

Kirk stared for a long moment, digesting his words. "That Earth will fall?"

"If that should occur, then all humanity will die."

"From the Klingons? Romulans? Who?"

"I cannot tell you their name. It would mean nothing to you. And as yet, their creation has not even occurred and will not for a century hence. But if you fail now, no sentient being in this universe will survive their voracious appetite."

Jim shook his head and blinked. "Just tell me what I have to do."

Ayelbourne blinked, as if the answer were obvious. "Prevent the destruction of the Federation. Ally yourself with both the Rom and Klin and others yet unknown to you. Feed peace."

"Why do you fear them so much?"

"They are the antithesis of life; a central processing mechanistic structure that overwhelms and infects all it touches. Even the strongest among you are not immune. Yet, with this collaboration, the StarFleet of the future will be able to prevent their final invasion."

"Are they dangerous to you? In your . . . normal form?"

"No. But if you fail, the deaths of limitless life forms will follow. That . . . would be the end of my kind as well."

"You thrive on the life of the galaxy."

Ayelbourne smiled gently. "Could you survive on a planet with no life, no energy?"

"No," he said softly, shaking his head, beginning to comprehend the Organian's horror at this possibility. "You live off our energy."

"In a manner of speaking," he agreed. "But not in any way you could currently understand."

"No doubt. What else can you tell me?"

"Nothing more. I am taking a grave risk with your time-stream by telling you this much. Many things that would have happened, now, will not. The normal course of your life and those of many others will change. And we and few others like me are responsible. But for the billions of life-forms that will survive and thrive? The cause is sufficient."

And just as Jim was reminded of a saying of Spock's, Ayelbourne was gone, evaporating as though he had never been there


	7. Chapter 7

Leonard settled back in his seat and checked his medikit for the fifth time. The shuttlecraft was on final entry into the Canopan system, and the reports that had come in for the past eight weeks were dire. The _Repulse_ waited outsystem; this close to the Klingon border it wouldn't do well to antagonize them unnecessarily. Jim had made his orders quite clear in that regard by having a Federation cruiser in spitting distance of their borders, just in case.

O-Dia sat opposite him, appearing calm, but he could tell by the flutter of her fingers that she was anything but. Her large eyes gazed at him with such faith and trust, and contrarily, he had another moment of doubt. Was he doing the right thing in bringing students this far out?

Yes, they were adults; yes, they were doctors; and yes, they did plan on serving in Fleet. But this was dumping them in the deep end. Were any of them ready for what they would see on Canopus IV? With a mental shake of his head he put the warring thoughts aside. These people needed emergency medical care and support--they were a part of the Federation and deserved what aid it could afford them in good and bad times.

And this was definitely one of the bad times.

The Panishan plague was a hemorrhagic viral fever with a usual morbidity factor of 1:5. However, the Canopans on the fourth planet had been struggling with both a severe drought, which aggravated the difficulty with their agriculture, and a planet-wide strike of water workers. As a result, the population was immunologically compromised by poor foodstuffs, which made them rife for infection by a viral form they had never encountered before and had no natural ability to combat. A merchant vessel had brought two infected crewmen onto the planet nearly eight weeks ago. During a week of R & R they had liberally spread plague germs into the most heavily populated area of the capitol and it had multiplied like a wildfire since, becoming pandemic a month after the initial infection.

The population had dropped from three billion to just about half that in less than three months. The ill died within seventy-two hours; thankfully, after twelve hours of fever and aches, thirty-six hours of cramping and bleeding from every orifice, they lapsed into a coma-like state and expired without further pain. Those who survived woke from the coma with secondary symptoms of system breakdowns. They required intensive care and treatment.

The global hospitals had been overwhelmed from the beginning and the military had been brought in to keep order. They had been better fed and were not becoming as ill as the rest, but it was only a matter of time before they were infected too. McCoy didn't expect his six students to make much of a dent in the overall mortality statistics, but he did want to immerse them in battlefield/disaster medicine. He'd only taken the strongest of his students: O'Dia, Dar, Slan Fendell, and her wife, Daria, Fen Tackett, and Cilin Clair. Fen was a quiet, slim redhead with pale blue eyes, while his drinking buddy, Cilin, was loud, boisterous, disposed to be known by everyone, but truly familiar to none. He was short and built like a bull, with huge shoulders and the biggest hands of any medical man McCoy had ever met. He had a remarkable way with children and McCoy believed he'd be an asset here, on a world where the plague was wiping out adults, yet leaving the youngest children behind.

The military attache who had been detached to greet them was polite, polished, and obviously exhausted. The Canopans were nominally humanoid and capable of both air and water breathing; the planet was M class, with a weak red sun, which meant that an air-borne virus like Panishan had nothing to fear from natural sunlight. Along with his own team, McCoy also had the medical staff from the _Repulse_ and other volunteers from the ship, making them a complement of seventy, including nurses.

The attache introduced himself as Tormil, a senior adjutant of the military general now in control of the planet. As popular, elected leaders had died, it had been necessary to maintain continuity of care and provisioning of supplies, and military leaders had taken over. They were more accustomed to having their people die on duty and their echelon system could handle the losses and maintain integrity. McCoy listened as the captain explained the current situation, walking swiftly toward waiting army aircars, while the balance of McCoy's people were met and shepherded into transports of their own.

"We have received massive quantities of food and supplies from various Federation aid societies. In due course, we created a central dumping and shipping area, including airlifts, sealifts, and land transportation throughout the five continents." He glanced at McCoy, with a curious expression in his lime-green eyes, surrounding an iris of sea-blue. He had little hair and it was pitch black and maintained in a long ridge in the middle of his head, where a central fin would have been had he evolved in a different ocean. It was composed of very light strands and they swayed in the breezes. The sky was a diffident violet hue, the trees and land around a dull grey-green. The oxygen content was relatively high for a class M planet, but nothing that would give them more than an initial dull headache until they adapted.

"As per your request, the coordinates we gave to you were for the most severely infected cities, particularly that which housed our United Global Society, a civilian and political institution with members from all across our world. The city, Omptir. . . ." The captain cleared his throat before he could continue. "Omptir was the most advanced society yet known on Canopus IV. However, even that could not save it. At the moment the city gates closed to prevent further spread of the plague, the glory of Omptir died." Tormir looked ill, his teal-green skin gaining a sickly emerald hue. "I was raised in Omptir, Dr. McCoy. I have not heard from my parents since the epidemic began. Troops are not allowed within its walls until the majority of the people are either dead or have gained immunity. Only then will we be able to gather estimates of the dead, the sick, the . . . destruction."

McCoy rested a hand on the young male's arm, noting the narrow musculature and bone structure of the Canopan. He was light, little more than 60 kilograms in the doctor's estimation and perhaps 1.5 meters in height. "We'll do whatever we can, captain."

"Yes, sir," Tormil answered, whatever emotions he felt once more firmly buttoned up.

His students settled in their seats, and the pilot set out. "How far?" McCoy asked.

"Perhaps 400 kilometers. It will take us approximately an hour to arrive. Do you require anything?"

McCoy considered, pursing his mouth in thought. He didn't want to offend anybody but he did have a job to do. "Captain, my students have traveled a long way to help, but they haven't examined a healthy Canopan before. Would you be willing to assist?"

Tormil gave him a wan smile from a relatively lipless mouth. "Of course, doctor. My partner, who is also a healer, thought the same as you and prepared me for your request." In moments he had stripped down to nothing, standing calm and relaxed before the group of them. "I am a Canopan male in my early prime, approximately twenty-four standard years. I am not old enough to mate and so my color is light, as compared to the eldest of my people. I am sixty-two kilograms and one-point-five meters tall, which is the norm for us. Females appear greatly similar to our males, as all gender characteristics are internal, and can only be known by the pheromonal signature that each of us gives off. We have a dual chambered heart, and as you can see," he indicated his neck, "we have a secondary set of gills, as we can also gather necessary oxygen from water. . . ."

While Tormil gave a lecture on the basic physiology of his people, McCoy reviewed the current disease vectors by patching into the data that Canopan Control had sent to the _Repulse_. While Tormil assured the students that the treatment of both genders was exactly the same, McCoy followed up and peppered the students and medical teams with questions via radio transmissions.

When they flew low enough, McCoy had a good look at the terrain of the Omptir. It appeared very much like any advanced city within the Federation with tall and remarkably ornate buildings done with an eye to architectural artistry. The streets were wide with natural vegetation lending a park-like atmosphere, with various places for the population to rest or view the gardens. Unlike many, the sidewalks here were not automated and were paths of a lovely translucent stone. Even the stores were formed with an eye to beauty and interaction with the landscape. A place, if he came here at any other time, he would have wanted to stay and visit.

Unfortunately, the streets were lined with bodies of those who were either ill or dead. No one else moved that he could see. The healthy were not assisting others, perhaps for fear of contagion. As the ship moved lower, Omptir gave off the air of a ghost town, deserted, dead. His team mumbled and murmured behind him, but not one said anything aloud, not wanting to disturb Tormil more by discussing the situation.

The aircars dropped McCoy and his team outside of the main hospital, the crew hurriedly tossing out the gear needed to create a field hospital and their supplies. Then they took off in a cloud of dust and dry air before any of the local people around them could react and attempt to gain entry to the shuttle.

The moment the doctor looked around and saw the devastation, he knew they were in over their heads. The dead lay where they had fallen; the ill either in their homes or lying on the streets, moaning and begging for help. It was impossible to tell at a glance who was in the primary, secondary, or tertiary period of the disease, or those who could survive given prompt treatment after the coma.

"All right, folks," McCoy raised his voice. "It's bad and it's going to get worse, but we do what we can. I don't think they'll appreciate us all tromping through their hospital, so remain here." Quite a few alarmed faces turned to him. "Remember, people, you're immunized. You can't catch this no matter what happens. Doctors, start triaging out here. Set up the field tent and get organized. Slan, you've had the most experience in epi. You are in command until I return."

The woman didn't question her orders. Of all of his doctors, Slan was the least likely to irritate any of the others. Her sense of humor was odd, but it didn't matter. Her willingness to help her colleagues throughout their training had made her their defacto leader and they wouldn't argue with her unless they had to; the group also would come to her with questions they might not ask him, fearful of looking ignorant or downright dumb.

He was stopped at the hospital entrance by two serious-looking males with large phaser rifles, but only for a moment. Once he had identified himself, they allowed him to pass with a grim-faced alacrity. Upon entering, McCoy couldn't help but sense the atmosphere of desperation, of fear. The medical staff walked about in twos and threes, covered in isolation gear, huddled in on themselves. They didn't even look up when he entered. There were patients _everywhere_ ; every square inch had a person being treated, some two to a bed. Raising his tricorder, he checked their status. All of them were in the recovery stage.

Straightening his shoulders, and wearing his best command expression, he asked and was directed to the administrator. This wide, airy space was the only place not crammed with patients, and McCoy stepped inside, and then knocked on the door to gain its occupant's attention. A young female Canopan looked up at him, her bright crest of green hair unkempt and tangled, her face drawn and marked with exhaustion. "Can I help you?" she asked nervously, gnawing on one finger.

"I'm Leonard McCoy, Starfleet Medical. We came to help."

The female almost collapsed in relief, her lipless mouth rising in a rictus of a smile. "Oh, thank Panan. I'm only an intern. They began dying so quickly . . . and doctors began isolating themselves so they wouldn't catch the disease . . . many sick people were banging down the doors and there was nothing we could do to help. . . ."

"You only have those people in the recovery stage here?"

She nodded. "It's all we can manage."

"Where's your military liaison?"

"We don't have one, other than the guards. And they volunteered after their recovery. There are only a dozen and they stand at all the entrances in shifts to prevent our being overwhelmed."

It was in McCoy's mind that they were already overwhelmed, and this young girl was in no shape to help anyone. He started rolling up his sleeves. "All righty, then. Here's what we're going to do. You, are going to lay down on that couch right there and go to sleep."

"But--."

"Now, Doctor. . ."

"Alizan."

"All right, Alizan, into bed with you. You're dead on your feet from fatigue."

"What are you going to do?" she asked, moving slowly to the long lounge chair and settling onto it with a sigh of relief.

"Get this place organized," he replied, and turned away to go back to the central entrance. Within minutes, he had dispatched two of the guards to find any doctors who had locked themselves into "safe areas" in the hospital, two more to the food stores and supplies area in the city, two more to gather what city administrators they could, and one to contact the military post outside the city walls via whatever communication they had here.

He formed fifty into groups of ten. Five were long-term soldiers or security, four volunteers, and one doctor. Their job was to begin a grid search. Those who were dead were to be identified by eye scan or digit print, scanned, and disposed of by phaser by the officers. The dead were as communicable as the living for a period of twelve hours and it did no one any good to see them decomposing. The doctor was to find the ill, give palliative care if possible, while the volunteers would bring them to the field hospital using local transportation.

"Group leaders, report to me by communicator every two hours. I want conditions, locations, and situation. Slan, you remain here. We'll check around the hospital for patients, and do what we can until the teams begin to bring people back."

Her brown eyes bored into his for a long moment, and then she nodded, waved her wife Daria off with a loving smile, and stepped into the field hospital to continue set-up and begin triage. McCoy and the nurses sectioned off the wide streets around the hospital into primary, secondary, and tertiary periods of the illness, setting out the simple fabric beds. Only the size of a coin when packaged, they became full-sized camp beds when activated, containing a simplistic computer system that would monitor their status and would link into the main comp in the center of the field unit.

The field tent was the size of a hangar deck and open on all sides, since this was a temperate climate. It dwarfed the hospital. Though the sun was not overly strong, you could still feel its heat, and McCoy was glad of the covering as he worked through the morning to begin treating his patients. Behind the hospital, staff quarters had been set up for his people to rest and eat meals.

If the disease was caught in the first stage it was treatable and McCoy set the few doctors that had remained and hidden in the hospital to do that. They argued, complained, and in one instance, became violent, but McCoy was in no mood for their antics. They could either work or go to prison, it was entirely up to them. With the soldiers behind him holding their phaser rifles with casual menace, everyone decided they'd rather work.

The Canopans were understandably alarmed by the whine of phasers, and upset by the seemingly casual disposal of their own people. It was a standard protocol for Federation worlds, and while McCoy understood their distress, no civilization could survive the death of half to three-quarters of their population with the dead piling up on every corner. Even if he followed the Canopan social norm of cremation, where could they possibly put all the ashes? And how to begin isolating, identifying the corpses, and prevent loss or destruction of the remains? No. It wasn't feasible, and the people began to understand that as more and more of the ill were brought in.

That evening it became clear to McCoy that there were no primary patients any longer. All had converted into the secondary or tertiary stages of the disease and required direct medical intervention to survive. Still, with all that they could do, every hour dozens died. He sent the Canopan doctors back into the main hospital if they showed no sign of infection, so that they could continue to treat those recovering, and stopped sending teams out once night had fallen, directing them to eat and sleep in shifts, giving those in the field hospital a chance to rest as well.

He went into the main hospital that night, to review the patients there, and sign-out those who were well enough to leave the next day. Out of every ten that became infected, only three made it through to recovery now. There were no incidences of reinfection, so the immunity factors were well established in their blood. McCoy used those immunity factors to begin creating an antigen for the future. Though the people who have lived through this plague would have immunity, it would not be passed down to their children, and so, a vaccine program would have to be instituted.

It wasn't until the next morning that a ragtag group of city administrators made their way to the hospital. Though obviously quite comfortable with political issues and protocol, they were at a loss to deal with a pandemic and complained about the destruction of their beautiful city.

"As far as I can see the city is intact, gentlemen," McCoy reminded them with asperity. "As people recover they will return to their homes and jobs. It's your responsibility to make certain that there is food, water, basic sanitation, and general medical care. Plan for the future, and deal with the immediate. Communicate with the population that once the disease is over in a person, they cannot be re-infected. All the healthy must return to work."

A young Canopan male with the most lustrous black strands that McCoy had seen thus far, came forward. "We cannot thank you enough, Doctor McCoy, and your people, for everything you have done. I am Aslandi, current administrator of the city of Omptir. My colleagues are understandably concerned by the loss of life, and how that will affect our city. Thankfully, most vital services are automated and will continue."

"You do realize that the entire planet's affected, Aslandi, not just Omptir?" McCoy asked, crossing his arms. Aslandi was obviously the leader now; what his position had been prior to the crisis was anyone's guess. The rest of the males that stood around him were older, and considerably more frightened.

"Yes, we are aware, but Omptir is the foremost city of our world," he reminded gently. "As we do, others will follow. Unfortunately, the global assembly is not in session, as too few of the assemblypersons are present."

"Dead or in hiding?" he interpreted, never being one for political correctness.

"Indeed," Aslandi said with a wan smile. "So regrettable. We will do all that we can to continue basic services until the disaster is over, as you suggest." He cleared his throat lightly, and the males behind him moved and mumbled. "I must ask you to discontinue the desecration of the remains of the population. It is most disturbing to us."

McCoy raised an eyebrow, but pasted a friendly smile on his lips. "The remains are treated as per Federation protocol in the event of a planetary disaster. While I completely understand your valid concerns and feelings, the virus is communicable even after death." He hardened his voice. "Phaser atomization is the standard response. You know that it also prevents secondary disease forms that could cause further illness." He gave a charming smile to the alarmed males standing in a huddle behind the administrator, glancing nervously about as though they expected multiple contagions to leap out with faces and names attached and infect them. "All remains are identified prior to removal, and relevant status uploaded into your own population database. I am certain that your able administration can come up with a reasonable mode of memorialization for the population, in order that they can mourn the loss of their loved ones and move on in the grieving process."

Aslandi nodded and if there was a slight twinkle in his eyes, the doctor let it go. It was obvious that the youngster had required McCoy's reminder about the viral contamination in order to deal with his colleagues concerns about the backlash regarding the atomization. He gave McCoy a smile of appreciation, and they departed, most of them worried, frightened, and of little significant help to their constituents at the moment. The doctor had a moment's appreciation for Aslandi's difficult position, and then returned back to his work.

 

 

As the days wore on, it became obvious that the population would have a surplus of children under twelve standard years who had survived, while their parents hadn't. How this would affect the Canopan societal model, McCoy could only make a few educated guesses.

Fen and Cilin had taken over the bulk of dealing with the children and they easily took up an entire wing of the hospital behind the staff quarters. It had been necessary to have further supplies manufactured on board the _Repulse_ and then forwarded, including more field tents. Of all the population, the children dealt best with the infection, probably due to their higher-functioning and actively adapting immune systems. It was all too easy to become attached to them, and when they died . . . it visibly took the heart and soul out of their caregivers. He had held more than a few of them in his arms when they had gone on, and if a tear or two fell, no one would ever comment about it.

Over time he saw his doctors truly start to _get it_. To understand that in the field, they were the personification of hope and life, the surcease of pain and possibility of survival. Their gentle, capable hands and confidence were what made the difference between despair and optimism, a painful fight or a gentle glide into death. It was McCoy's standing order that no patient died alone, and that they were being touched when they did. If it made his doctors feel more, that was all right with him.

 

 

Slowly, day by day, they started to win the fight. Mortality rates went down in Omptir. As the initial stages of the infection burnt themselves out, and there were three days without new cases, the military were allowed into the city. Other cities begged for their help, and McCoy began sending his teams out by aircar to them, using the same model he had created here. The volunteers from the _Repulse_ were rotated back to the ship, and the Canopan military took their place.

The teams reported back to him daily, and in each case, as soon as the remains were cleared of an area, infection rates went down. So basic, but so effective. The military began sending their own medical teams to teach others, and ever so glacially slowly, the global rates of infection went down.

 

 

By this time, McCoy was directing the pandemic struggle from the administrator's office in the hospital in Omptir. He was worn out and irritable. The six weeks he had envisioned had turned into three months and then six months. More Federation teams arrived to aid the population in adapting to the changes that the virus had wrought, and finally, it was over.

O-Dia took his hand as he was idly wandering around the hospital and tossed him into a bed with a sedative to knock him out. He slept for two days straight, and then another three, between bathroom breaks and those for food, while she and Slan supervised the packing up. When she curled up against him late that final night, he moved enough to kiss her hair, but didn't wake.

The next day McCoy gathered his tired, worn, saddened, but considerably wiser doctors around him in the cafeteria of the hospital over a cup of _inil_ , a local form of coffee with a significantly stronger kick of caffeine.

They talked amongst themselves and he took a while to really look them over. Slan's fierce olive-toned face was smiling, and Daria's rather placid smile responded. This sort of action was just up Slan's alley, but McCoy had his doubts about Daria. While the blonde had worked hard and well, she didn't have the spark of initiative required, nor did she allow herself to become emotionally involved. She rejected any emotions other than those related to her wife, and the surgeon did not see that working well in space. She would not pass into the next stage of med-surg flight training. How that would affect their marriage, McCoy could not guess and didn't attempt to try. He had to think of the Fleet and other patients that would be under her care and she wasn't what he was looking for, no matter how good her grades.

Fen and Cilin were joking around with each other, and had worked well together and separately. Though Cilin was a pediatrician at heart, and Fen an internist, both had held their own through the harrowing experience of Canopus IV and would do well in space. Their calm, steady actions and humor had made an unbearable situation that much easier to deal with for all concerned.

It was Dar, however, who had stood out and shone in the murky light of Canopus IV. His empathy with his patients, coolness in the face of overwhelming numbers, and real concern about them showed in every aspect of their care. He had modeled himself after McCoy, and he wasn't so modest that he didn't see the similarities in their style.

He turned to O-Dia and smiled. She was tired as they all were, but was still as immediately attractive to him as she had ever been. A good doctor, a loving woman and gentle caregiver, she did not have what it took for space. Hard decisions regarding who received attention and who didn't had come up while they had been on Canopus; O-Dia had not been able to make them. If it came down to a viable patient and one who was a possible, she couldn't disconnect sufficiently to make that choice, and that was a killer. If she realized it yet, he didn't know, and it would be hell to tell her. She'd worked so hard, but it just wasn't enough.

McCoy checked his communicator. They were waiting for the shuttle to take them back to the _Repulse_ , and he was hoping it would be on-time. He didn't want to get caught up in the constant round of luncheons and dinners that were often required after a situation like this. Thanks weren't necessary. They had done their jobs and that was all they really needed to know. To get a taste for the limelight, the appreciation, was not a good idea for any of them. McCoy knew he hated it just because it made him start, even the tiniest bit, to believe in his own infallibility, and in his line of work, that was fatal.

The sudden whine of phasers firing caught his attention and he lurched out of his chair in response, rushing to the nearest window to find what amounted to a war erupting just outside the building.

The Canopan military were in a running battle with a huge complement of . . . _Klingons_.

_Crap!_ He thought to himself. _And I promised Brad I wouldn't get into trouble._

 

 

The captain of the _U. S. S. Repulse_ was young and hungry and wanted to make a name for himself. But he realized that the four Klingon ships that had just popped out of warp outside the Canopan system were far more than he could handle alone and keep his ship even relatively intact. She had no chance to pick up the six doctors that remained on Canopus IV before she was fired upon and her warp systems damaged, along with her phasers.

The report to Fleet would take almost twenty-four hours by subspace squirt, and during that time the _Repulse_ was desperately doing her best to remain out of range of the Klingon's phasers. A small ship, designed more for exploration than battle, she was outmatched and doing what she could to hightail it out of the area before she was blasted to atoms.

Unfortunately, that was not to be. The warp drive went critical fifteen minutes after it was struck once more by the Klingon batteries, and she imploded twelve seconds after that, leaving little behind but space debris to mark her passing. Two hundred and thirty two officers and crew were lost to an icy, impassive grave


	8. Chapter 8

_Damn, I wish Bones were home_ , Kirk thought, missing his friend for what felt like the tenth time since he'd shipped out. Over the years, he'd become quite accustomed to McCoy's sometimes charming, more often acerbic tones, and his quick and gentle healing.

He had tossed his dress uniform jacket on an old-fashioned metal coat tree that sat by his hall door, and was settled in to read from the constant stack of reports and mail when he heard the call he was beginning to dread: "Admiral Kirk to Ops, please. Admiral Kirk to Ops."

Leaving just his green shirt on, he went through the glass doors, and arrived at the desk of the lead analyst on Beta shift, Charles Keller, a soft-spoken but sharp Martian colonist who had joined Fleet for a taste of adventure, only to find that his skills were best suited to a cubicle in the heart of Operations. Jim dropped his hand on Keller's shoulder and waited, scanning the screens.

"The _Repulse_ is not responding to our deep-space pings, sir. Her telemetry is gone."

 _Gone?_ he wondered. _That didn't happen unless the ship was...._ He didn't allow himself to finish that thought _. "_ What was her last location?"

"In standard orbit around Canopus IV. They were due to receive a shuttlecraft from the surface . . . ." He checked the computer. "They were retrieving Fleet Medical College staff and were cleared to return to Earth after a fourteen-month deployment."

Keller shut his mouth with a snap as he read the mission personnel list off the screen he had just uploaded with the information.

The analysts found a reason to look anywhere but at Kirk. Everyone who had eyes and ears, or had read the _Enterprise_ logs knew of Kirk's relationship with the cranky Southern doctor.

"Analysis?" he snapped out loudly.

"I'm sorry, sir, but my analysis suggests that the _Repulse_ has been destroyed. By whom or what is unknown at this time."

"What's the closest ship?"

"The _Valor_ , sir, but she's only a research vessel," he vaguely heard Halin say over the heavy beat of his blood in his ears. She came to his side, professional, calm.

He straightened his shoulders in response, and asked, "What was _Repulse's_ last communique?"

"Beta shift report indicated they were preparing to send a shuttle to bring the medical team up from the surface."

Kirk nodded. "But no confirmation that they had arrived or been returned to the ship? And no indication that there was trouble from any quarter?"

"None so far, sir. Any further communication would take almost a day to get here by subspace," Halin unnecessarily reminded him. Jim's stomach had bottomed out, and dread had lodged in his chest like a lead ball. He gritted his teeth and ignored the flip his heart made in response to his fear. _Bones._

He turned to her. "Send _Valor_ to the Canopian system, but tell her to be wary, to scout the area, that a ship has possibly been lost. Whatever _Repulse_ hit, I don't want _Valor_ to follow second."

"Aye, sir," she replied crisply and turned to go back to her office to make the call in private.

"I want the telemetry from the Canopian system analyzed. Now, gentlemen," he snapped. "Something's happened to one of our own and I want to know what it was."

A chorus of "ayes," responded, and rather than stand behind them like a brooding predator, he let them have their space and returned to his office. This was their first real test with him, and he would learn who was the best and brightest among them in the trenches, not from reports that Stearns had written months ago.

_Spock?_

He was in the middle of a class; Jim could feel his students' presence in his thoughts as he continued teaching. _I feel your distress, bondmate. What has happened?_

_The ship Bones was taking back to Earth is not responding. Its ID signal has dropped off completely and there's no telemetry to indicate its survival._

For a long moment Spock did not reply. _You believe it lost?_

 _Yes._ The tension in his body racheted higher; he couldn't say the words that would have followed. As usual, Spock read his heart.

_Jim, I do not believe that Leonard is dead. I have confidence I would feel him go. He is connected to me, in some ways, more strongly than my own father._

_It's not just wishful thinking?_

_Vulcans do not engage in fantasy._ His mental voice was arctic, but there was a trace of humor as well.

 _Oh, of course not,_ Jim replied, though he knew better. _I'll keep you apprised._

Kirk sighed as he felt Spock's essence drift away from him.

Dreer entered, his handsome face etched with lines of concern. "I'm sorry, sir, but you have the commencement speech in fifteen minutes."

 _When it rains, it pours,_ he thought, remembering how often McCoy had used old sayings to ground him, the wisdom of the ages preserved in proverbs. "Right, Falan," he replied, and rose, inwardly complaining that he didn't have time to this silly ceremony now! And then he realized that McCoy would be the first to tell him he had work to do; no matter what he was feeling, how his gut ached with worry, his duty was his primary concern. He took the time putting on his dress jacket to school his face to calmness. He strode purposefully though the Fleet towers, across interconnecting halls, aerial bridges, until he arrived at the Academy. Once there, with Falan racing to keep up with him, he followed a number of short-cuts he had learned long ago, until he came to the parade ground.

He settled into the chair provided for him on the stage, and barely listened to the speeches, the awards, and the commendations. As was usual for him, Kirk hadn't written a speech, preferring to extemporize, to respond to the needs and emotions of the moment. His heart a sad weight, he looked out upon the rows of smiling faces, the so _young_ faces, and remembered his own excitement on this day, the sense of a new beginning, of a life reaching for its remarkable potential.

When it was his turn to give the commencement speech, he stood up and gestured away the standing ovation he received. Looking out over all those people, students, family, friends, he knew what was uppermost in his heart would also be a priority in theirs.

"There's a quote from an ancient fantasy writer that I particularly enjoyed as a boy, while I was dreaming of stars and starships in my family's Iowa corn fields. His name was Andre Norton, and he said: 'As for courage and will -- we cannot measure how much of each lies within us. We can only trust there will be sufficient to carry through trials which may lie ahead'.

I've always believed that quote could have been written for all our cadets, but never moreso than on this day. . . ."

Days later, he wouldn't remember what he said in the moment. Upon viewing the recording, he had to admit it was the best motivational speech he had ever given. He'd ended it with his favorite quote from Magellan.

"The sea is dangerous and its storms terrible, but these obstacles have never been sufficient reason to remain ashore... Unlike the mediocre, intrepid spirits seek victory over those things that seem impossible... It is with an iron will that they embark on the most daring of all endeavors... to meet the shadowy future without fear and conquer the unknown. I wish for all of you a starry sky and a swift ship."

The students leapt to their feet and continued to clap until he left the stage. Spock met him at the bottom, his eyes moist. "Inspiring, admiral," he said, his baritone barely able to be heard over the tumultuous applause.

"Bones would've laughed. He would say I was snowing 'em all."

"No, Jim, not this time. This time, he would have been proud."

Kirk wiped away a tear that had strayed into his eye, held Spock's hand for a long moment, and then, with Falan trailing behind him, returned to Ops.

 

 

Kirk was still in his office, fifteen hours later, when _Repulse'_ s last communique came in and was decoded. The center screen cleared, until only her captain's face and voice could be seen, sparks erupting from all over the command deck, the navigator and engineer doing their best to keep her in one piece. Kirk had been in the thick of battle, and knew the terror and exhaustion that the young captain felt.

"Four Klingon vessels have dropped out of warp in the Canopan system. They have attacked us, and we are at present attempting an escape from the system. The medical team is still on the planet, and we cannot retrieve them at this time."

Kirk heard the scream of phasers and the whine of engines tuned too high for their structural integrity to hold out. "Two Klingon ships are in pursuit, while two others have remained in orbit, and are beaming down men and arms, no doubt to take over the central planetary government of Canopus IV. Once that is accomplished, this sector will no longer be safe for any Federation traffic--"

The ship gave an almighty lurch, the captain was flung forward and lost his seat, and the explosion that followed dimmed the Ops screens with its brightness, as the ship died, her warp core going super-critical. The video transmitted for all of ten seconds more before it too, was destroyed.

 _"Valor_ reports that there is nothing but debris from the location of the _Repulse,"_ another analyst muttered, hand resting against his earpiece as he listened and responded to what _Valor_ was communicating in real time.

Fifteen seconds of absolute silence followed, as the analysts gave tribute of their own to the fallen.

Then Kirk looked at the screens that indicated which ships were nearest. "I want _Venable_ , _Sauvage_ , _Ardent_ , and _Spirit_ on their way to Canopus, fully armed, and ready for battle. Advise _Valor_ to remain out-system as not to alert the Klingons that we know they're there." He looked around at his team. "People, this is a test. They're poking at us to see how we'll react. I plan on making it the most painful incursion the Klingon race has ever known." He looked over at Halin's pale but staunch, face. "Are we clear?"

He was heading toward Nogura's office in the next breath.

 

 

"Worried?" Nogura asked, far too calmly from Kirk's point of view. He sat behind his desk, idly tapping his fingers across the black enamel surface.

"No," Kirk growled. "I'm just damned sorry we had to lose a ship and crew for them to get their point across."

"I doubt they expected to find _Repulse_ there, Jim. And they reacted with a typical lack of sense."

"Bastards," he cursed under his breath.

"Possibly. Probably." Nogura sighed and leaned forward in his chair. "They're assessing you."

"The Klingon High Command _knows_ me, sir. They've endured my battle tactics before."

"Yes, and lived to regret them, I know. But I think . . . they're wondering if you'll break the Accords, crack the truce the Organians forced upon us. Or to see if the Organians will act again."

Jim leaned over Nogura's desk and planned his fists on it. "First, _they_ broke the Accords, and second, I haven't a clue as to what the Organians will do now. They seem far more worried about the future than the present." He shook his head and started to pace. "In the bigger picture, it may not matter what happens in the immediate, because we have to become allies in the future with both the Klin and Rom and who knows who else in order to defend ourselves from the Doom they foresee."

Nogura stood up and faced Kirk, stopping his pacing by wrapping long fingers around his arms. "Jim, it boils down to this. It doesn't matter what the Organians do or don't do. _You_ have to be the biggest bastard out there. It's that simple."

Kirk nodded. "I know."

"And I know you can do it. And that you've picked the right captains for the job." Nogura looked at him, his golden eyes sad, but seeming lit from within by his will. "You know their psychology. Don't hold back; a Klingon only respects that which can kill him. Be the knife at their throat, and then let's find an equal peace."

"Can there be such a thing with Klingons?"

The Commander-in-Chief broke into a smile. "Yes, Jim, I think so. If you make them bow to it, it can happen. If we break their military power and yet don't destroy their pride . . . it'll happen."

"Oh. Is that all? Yes, sir," Kirk replied with a grimace.

Nogura chuckled. "What do you need?"

Jim thought about that. "I have my team."

"But you'd feel better if you had Spock, too."

Kirk frowned. "I would. I just don't know if that's from logic or weakness."

The other man clapped him on the shoulder. "Jim, you've got more courage than any ten men I know and trust. To even be able to ask yourself a question like that takes balls."He released Kirk and stepped away. "I'd ask him which he thinks it is. But use him however you see fit. I'll clear it. He's done what I wanted him to do at the Academy anyway."

Kirk glared at his friend, mentor, and commander. "I saw that Rhane Esira resigned this morning. She had a pointed conversation with Spock a few days ago; he accused her of xenobigotry and she didn't deny it. You knew about what she was doing?"

"Let's just say I had my concerns. Any reasonably good administrator can go in now and elevate the level of our trainees."

"And the explosion in Spock's office? Did you have 'concerns' that would happen too?"

"I never thought it would go so far," Nogura admitted, meeting Kirk's furious gaze. "We can't have any kind of bigotry in either the Academy or Fleet if a true interspecies military alliance is to be born and have fruit" His eyes narrowed. "I'll use whatever tools I have to stamp it out. I knew Spock would ruffle the feathers of the most zealous of the bigots there; he's too smart and too _alien_ for Rahne and her ilk to just ignore."

"Did you even warn him?" Kirk asked, outraged afresh over Nogura's manipulations.

"Do you really think that Spock, having been in the service for over twenty years, needs any warning about xenobigotry?"

Kirk locked his jaw and said nothing further. As much as he wanted to tear into Chiro about using Spock as a tethered goat, he just didn't have time to worry about that now. "I'd better get back, sir."

"I'll be watching," Nogura told him.

His smile was all teeth. "Wondering if you made the wrong decision?"

"Hell, no. Just want to watch you kick some Klingon ass. For the _Repulse_."

"œFor the _Repulse,"_ Kirk echoed, his hands clenched into fists at his side, his heart slowly congealing into stone.

Battle required patience, energy, nerves of steel, and a little bit of conjuring--at least his version of it. A sly smile swept across his face, as he considered the best way to bring the Klingons to their knees.

 

 

The message Spock received during his afternoon class was not unexpected. It ordered him to report to Admiral Kirk in Operations immediately upon receipt. He dismissed the class early, much to their obvious pleasure. As he required no materials other than his memory and a computer terminal while teaching, he had nothing to pack up and subsequently walked to his office to send a message to Bader, advising him of the change in assignment. Spock did not believe that his reassignment would be of long duration, but he may have to make some arrangements of his own in order not to leave the Academy permanently. Once this crisis was over, he saw no reason he could not return to his position here. The admiral could be reasoned with; Spock did not believe that with all the resources of the Fleet behind him, Kirk truly needed him.

He made his way to the main Fleet buildings, through three lifts where his identity was scanned at each, and finally, into the Operations area. He couldn't help but note that the security officers here were as McCoy would put it, 'seriously packing'. Their weapons were more appropriate to a battleground than a peaceful office building on a planet at the heart of the Federation. For anyone with wit, it was an observable indicator of the Fleet being upgraded to a wartime footing.

Even greater security presence was apparent as he exited the lift to the main operations floor. He could see Jim talking to a female Deltan, no doubt Commander Halin. Entering the doors of Ops Central, he walked to Kirk and waited for him to finish with the commander. With a gesture, Kirk indicated he should follow him into his office.

"You know I wanted you to have your freedom, Spock."

He lifted a hand to stop the flow. "I have no complaint to register. As a Star Fleet officer, I will serve wherever I am needed." He noted the tension in Kirk's shoulders, the set of his neck, and the subtle movements of his fingers and lowered his voice. "And right now, you seem to need me more than my students."

Jim let out a relieved sigh. "Are you sure? I was worrying about it. Am I being ridiculous. . . ?"

He understood what Jim was asking. "No, admiral, I do not believe you are. Logic dictates that past experience must be considered when mounting a new mission. I noted the greater security and heightened surveillance of the premises, and can only infer that we are mobilizing on a more war-like basis. Prior accomplishments indicate that we work best together; the results cannot be argued." He relaxed his stance and softened his voice. "I am pleased to once more serve at your side."

Kirk nodded and grasped his arm for only a moment, in what Spock construed as silent thanks. _One does not thank logic_ , he thought to himself, _but Humans apparently felt the need to_. Spock listened as the admiral quickly sketched the situation with the Klingons.

"You'll have the office opposite mine. Dreer and Halin have already moved down one. I'll leave the hall door open, and that way we can communicate much like we did aboard ship. I leave it to you to figure out what you'll need as regards computing power, though the feeds from the ops screens are easy to incorporate."

He brushed those minute issues aside. "What are you planning to do, admiral?"

Kirk smiled, but it was of the sort that reminded the Vulcan just how devious his Human could be, as Jim rubbed his hands together. "It's time we reminded the Klingons that I only play to _win_."

Spock's eyes brow reached to his hairline in response. "I have never known you to do otherwise. If would be a grave error in their tactics if they did."

The admiral walked across the room, and tapped a large screen suspended on its side, indicating various ships of the line posted in their current position. As each moved, their telemetry from the various sensor buoys throughout Federation-held space relayed their location. "I've sent these four ships to the Canopus system," Kirk indicated with a hand. "They'll take seventy-two hours at warp seven to get there, and set for battle.

In the meantime, I've sent eight ships of the line to various strategic planets beyond the Klingon border. They have the Romulan cloaking devices aboard and will use them to arrive undetected at their targets.

I need your help in teaching their communications officers to scramble the Klingon coms, as well as in changing our ships ident codes to their ships ident codes. I know it can't be done until they're only a certain distance away, but it'll confuse their targeting, and give our ships an extra edge. If you get in touch with your father, I have every faith that he'll be able to aide you in acquiring the codes you need."

Spock turned his head and watched his commander, his partner and friend, for a long moment. "Cunning, admiral. My compliments."

Jim chuckled. "I was thinking inspired myself."

"As for my father's knowledge--."

Kirk raised a hand. "Don't ask. I swore I wouldn't leak any family secrets."

"Indeed," Spock intoned, deadpan. "However, I _am_ your family."

He smiled. "So is he. And frankly, he scares me more than you do."

Spock's brow again reached his hairline. It would be an interesting conversation to have with Sarek. He nodded. "As you wish. In any event, we only have a short window of opportunity. I require a computer to begin."

Kirk gestured across the hall, and Spock turned to go.

"And Jim?"

"Yes?"

"I am pleased to be here."

The smile that Jim gave him then caused him to give a brief one of his own.

"Get to work."

"Taskmaster," Spock mock-grumbled.

"That's 'slave-driver', Jim told him with a grin. "Get your vernacular right."

"It is not _my_ vernacular," he said. "McCoy has tainted my Earth-standard with his _patois_."

"God-willing, he'll keep on doing it," Kirk muttered. "And _patois_ is old French!"

 

 

Leonard McCoy sat on a block of broken mortar within what remained of the hospital he had lived and worked in for the last six months of the pandemic.

The lovely columns of basalt and marble had been destroyed, the beautifully efficient buildings decimated, along with nearly everyone inside. The city was burning, bolts from the Klingon ships in orbit obliterating what had once been architecturally and visually stunning. This new pandemic was one of violence, destruction, and murder. The population of Canopus IV hadn't stood a chance against the systematic extinction that the Klingons unleashed.

It wasn't like it had been on Organa, where they demanded the subjugation of the population and the immediate delivery of the Federation spies before they threatened murder. None of them had been aware that what they were seeing wasn't reality, and the deaths of thousands hadn't occurred as they had planned. Then, it had all been a trick of the mind.

But not here. People died in the millions, many of them having just recovered sufficiently from the pandemic to return to their homes, their lives, to mourn the dead, and begin to rebuild their civilization.

But all too soon the Klingons had come, like some Biblical plague of locusts.

The shuttlecraft from the _Repulse_ had been one of the first casualties of phaser fire, and sat burning even now outside the remains of the hospital. McCoy had done his best to keep his people together, protected, inside the ruins. There was nothing they could do to prevent this mass extinction of a peaceful people.

No one from the _Repulse_ responded to their frantic hails, and no teams had arrived from the ship. McCoy could only surmise that they had been either captured or killed.

At the moment, the doctor was doing his best to keep his folks alive, including the Canopans he had been working with. They were mostly running and hiding, hand phasers their only weapons against the destructive onslaught of the most brutal beings in the known universe. McCoy thought that any ship with decent sensors would be able to track them if reconfigured to find Humans, but it was his hope that they wouldn't be interested. After all, they couldn't want to kill the entire populace, could they? Who would give them information, be their slaves, do work that was beneath Klingon warrior sensibilities, if they did?

He prayed fervently, glad for every night they managed to stay free and alive. His student-doctors had thought they had seen the worst that starship duty could hand out during the pandemic, and McCoy had never expected to have to lead them in this. The dull-eyed and dirty faces of some of them said more than their words ever could. The weaker of them would not return to their studies even if they did live past this immediate crisis, courage and training too paltry a shield to fend off the continued pounding of life and screaming, bloody, death in every direction.

They found packaged foodstuffs in empty homes and apartments, clothing to cover their uniforms in stores and shops, but nothing could assuage the terrible fear that each of them suffered, or erase the devastation that they had witnessed.

 

 

Three days after the occupation began, their little troupe had been rounded up by forty Klingons and brought to a small ship that sat outside the remains of the provincial government. A gruff, abrasive Klingon of enormous height and breadth sat outside it, his fists settled on his hips, brow ridges flaring against a wide forehead and a smoky sun. His eyes were mud brown, but sharp and merciless, in a well-scarred face.

"Star Fleet! Doctors, from what the peasants here tell me. You came to save them, and I came to slay them. Which of us would you say was more successful?" he asked with a laugh, and drank from a mug of something golden and cool.

Dar would have smacked the bearded oaf, his fury so consuming and bloated he was willing to die if he could just release some of it, but McCoy held him back.

The Klingon commander wiped his mouth with a gloved hand. "By Agun, I knew you Federation whelps were here, but you gave us a good hunt for a ten-day. I thank you for that." He nodded his massive head, leonine hair reaching down his back and a few braids tucked within the mass. "The rest of these Canopans died with little fight. There was no glory to be found here!" He leaned aside and spit. "I have orders to allow three of you to live and remain, as chroniclers of what you have seen. The rest will either be killed or made slaves, I haven't decided which yet," he added, with a lazy, drunken, flick of his hand.

"And how shall we know you?" McCoy snarled sarcastically. "I am Leonard McCoy, Star Fleet Medical, Earth."

The Klingon raised a brow in acknowledgement of his familiarity with the rituals of his people. It was only proper that a man give him name to those he has defeated. "I am Klaath, leader of the Klan Kitaghr, born on Klinzhai. I am a killer of men."

"I'm a healer of men," McCoy told him, thrusting Dar behind him. "And my people will remember me long after your name is all but dust, forgotten by even the ancestors." His rational mind was stuttering--it couldn't imagine what had possessed him to antagonize a giant Klingon who could probably snap him with as little effort as a brittle branch. But he was just so tired of death and pain, sick of fear and horror. It roiled out of him like a putrid stream. "I bring _life_ , and I do not fear you, Klaath. We defeated Kor, allied with Kang; I've known Klingons of honor and bravery. But this," he gestured, " _this_ massacre has no honor in it."

Klaath growled and moved towards him, but McCoy stood his ground, O'Dia clutching his arm, a whimper escaping her.

He glared down at McCoy, making him lift his chin just to meet his dark brown eyes. "It is true, Earther. It is true." His men began to mutter and speak amongst themselves. "SILENCE! he snarled, baring his teeth in warning. "But this sham will not change _my_ honor! I will bring Kirk and his puling Federation to its knees!"

His men cheered while McCoy laughed, but it was his laughter that they heard.

"Kirk?" he chuckled and shook his head, disbelieving. "You think _this_ carnage, this disgrace, will scare Jim Kirk?"

"What do you know of him?" Klaath asked, gaze narrowing.

"More than you do," McCoy replied with a grin. He was already a prisoner and probably dead, but he wouldn't shackle Jim with concern over his life. He wanted Kirk to make them pay. "He's not scared of _you_ , a man who would order the wholesale slaughter of helpless women and children, of a people whose military haven't fought a war in millennia! Kirk is a soldier, a man born to fight, and to win." He smiled and bounced on his toes. "You'll see. I swear on their graves, your people will regret every death that you have caused here. Every single one."

Just then, a large explosion occurred somewhere in the skies over Canopus, and Klaath's communicator buzzed. Whatever he heard, it didn't please him, and his brow darkened with rage.

"At least Kirk will fight," he snarled, and McCoy wondered if Jim had been fool enough to bring his precious neck within reach of a Klingon armada. "Leave three and kill the rest!"

Stunned, his people didn't know what to do, and they looked to him. McCoy yelled and darted into the line of fire, bodies falling all around him as the soldiers obeyed their orders.

Sudden darkness took him, and he never felt himself fall onto the bloodied sands of Canopus IV, the sound of O'Dia's terrified scream the last thing he knew.


	9. Chapter 9

Spock and Kirk watched the Operations screens, following the ships that were even now entering the Canopan system, just days after the attack. The system was on the extreme edge of Federation-held space, and its location made it obvious that this had only been a feint, a way to learn Fleet strength and responsiveness. There was little of value to be found there, no stores of dilithium, valuable foodstuffs, workable mines, or a physically strong people to conscript.

Spock watched Jim as he stood among the analysts, walking the floor, thinking aloud, much as he had done aboard _Enterprise_. _Operation Sting_ had been in progress for seventy-two hours, and Kirk had not left Ops in all that time.

"Admiral, Task Force One is ready and waiting for your order to commence their attack on the four Klingons ships still in orbit. Standing by." Herb's voice was calm and cool, but he was sweating.

"Sir, Task Force Two is ready and waiting for your order to commence their attack on the Klingon planetary targets. They confirm they are under cloak and there has been no reaction to their arrival. Standing by."

Kirk tapped a communications console. "Admiral Nogura, I await your command."

Nogura's voice was deep and vibrant. "Admiral Kirk, please explain the error of their ways to the Klingons. You have a 'go'."

"Confirmed, Command. Captains, _Operation Sting_ is a go. I say again, _Operation Sting_ is a go. Good luck and good hunting."

There were no verbal replies, only the immediate movement of all of the ships he had assigned. Task Force One would take back the Canopan system, while Two would phaser through planetary shields and blitz strategic military targets on each of the six planets involved. It was a warning and a response in one. Kirk could not stand idly by and allow citizens of the Federation to be harmed. He would not.

And at this moment, the Klingon ambassador to the Federation, K'irat, the Federation President, Panan Norr, and Nogura were meeting in the Chief's office to 'discuss' the invasion of Canopus. Spock was certain that these meetings were normally nothing more than elaborate verbal dances, with little of import being said by any of the members. The advent of Klingon forces on the Canopan system could not be verified by other than the report and subsequent destruction of the _Repulse._ Mitre, the head of intelligence, had advised Kirk that the Klingon involved, Klaath, was a beast of a man, happily drinking the blood of his enemies and holding none alive other than females who would suit certain of his purposes.

"Oh, to be a fly on the wall," Jim murmured, his thoughts along the same line as Spock's own.

"No doubt, Admiral Nogura is explaining the situation to K'irat at this moment with his usual tact."

"He's shoving it down his throat with glee," Jim confirmed.

"Indeed."

Kirk rubbed his chin, releasing a tired breath. "I have faith in our captains, Spock. They'll take back the planet and make their points on Klingon territory with as little loss of life as they can manage. I just wish I was out there. I don't like not knowing."

"Our communications systems are not capable to transmitting such a distance without greater power sources than are available on ships at this time, admiral."

"I know, I know. But to wait, and wonder . . . I don't know how Stearns did it without losing his mind."

"He took the time between battles to rest," Spock pointed out, not liking the dark circles under Jim's eyes. "It is 2300 hours, admiral; you should sleep," he reminded gently.

"How can I, knowing they're fighting for their lives out there?" He flung a hand at the screens.

"You have done all you could: prepared their strategy, given them the tools they require, trained them adequately, and given them a captain to emulate. There is nothing more that can be done."

Nogura's unexpected entrance interrupted Spock's soft-voiced comments. The strategists ignored him, focused entirely on their work.

"Jim! Just had a lovely time with K'irat. Did you know that Klingons foam at the mouth when they're really angry? It was great fun to watch."

Jim gave him a smile. "I hope you recorded it."

"Of course. Downloaded it to your terminal for an idle moment's pleasure." The Chief glanced at Kirk, measuring. "You're exhausted; go home and get some sleep. Nothing to be done now but wait for the reports to come in." Spock intercepted the gaze from Nogura, and the nod that made his soft request an order.

He grasped Kirk's arm and pulled. Jim moved slightly and then locked his muscles. "I'm not leaving my people!"

"That's an order, Admiral Kirk," Nogura insisted, his voice warm. "You can't help them. The strategy is set; the plan is in motion. Let it run its course." He smiled. "Go. Now. Eat, sleep. Come back in the morning."

Kirk gave Spock an irritated glare, but he waited, calmly, knowing Jim would obey. "Yes, sir," he responded sourly, but left Operations with only one backward glance.

By the time they had arrived at their apartment, Jim was stumbling in weariness. In the elevator, he leaned against the wall, using it to hold him up. Spock shook his head, displeased at Kirk's level of exhaustion. He casually picked his _th'y'la_ up and carried him to their apartment, then inside, and to their bedroom. He efficiently stripped him, and covered him with a blanket, before doing the same and climbing in beside him.

Though he was very tired, Jim couldn't seem to settle enough to sleep. He tossed and turned, worries regarding his crews in harm's way not allowing him to rest.

With a slight tug on the bond, and an insistent command to 'sleep,' Jim finally fell into an exhausted slumber.

 

 

Leonard McCoy regained consciousness slowly. There were voices around him speaking Standard, not the guttural Klingonese or the lyric Canopan language in which he had become fluent.

He was oddly weary; he knew he'd been out for a long time, his fuzzy brain aware of that much at least. The bed he was lying on was lumpy and uncomfortable, but he couldn't seem to move. He opened his eyes and began to blink, a thick, dry substance in his eyes blocking his vision. Closing them again, he attempted to move his arms, but was pinned tightly by whatever was on top of him.

"We're coming!" a voice said above him, and slowly the weight on his chest eased until he was completely free of it. "Don't try to move yet, doctor; we need to check you out first."

"Can't see," he managed to mutter, before his body started to twitch in violent pins and needles.

He heard a medical tricorder begin its scan and lay still while it reviewed his status.

"Okay, doctor, let's get you up to the ship. Hey, I've got a priority here!" His clothing was tagged with a locator for the transporter and he soon felt the beam disassociate his molecules for a full second, and then reassemble them in what he hoped were the correct order.

He was quickly hustled onto a stretcher and to the sick bay.

"Where . . . am I?"

"You're on the _U.S.S. Venable_ , Doctor McCoy. We're going to take good care of you."

"What's the . . . damage?"

"Not too bad. A few bumps and bruises."

McCoy chuckled or tried to. "Don't kid a kidder."

"You let me do my job, sir, and we'll talk about it after. How does that sound?" His voice went away for a while. "Prep for surgery."

Moments later, it all drifted away again, and he returned to the dark silence.

 

 

Spock held few doubts that the engineers, electronics specialists, welders, construction workers, computer specialists, and thousands of others who were laboring on the new ships of the line were aware that something was in the wind.

The Moon Base near Earth was the largest space-berth used for construction of starships within the Federation, outside of the largely secret one just outside of Vulcan space. There were two others located in relatively quiet and isolated planetary system of Veneta IV, and Filan Prime. A public scientific expedition doing research on the causations of internal planetary collapse had been instigated in these systems, to offset any questions regarding the increased travel and the restrictions regarding these systems.

Spock's primary task, as Kirk had stated it, was to make sure that these stations remained secret, and operating at the highest level of quality production, while he focused on harrying the Klingons.

And harry them he did. No Klingon within Federation space was allowed to travel without a Security Officer by his side, and that included the too-charming ambassador, K'irat, and his aides. No known Klingon ships were allowed within Federation space without a Fleet presence as well. He worked ceaselessly on new strategies to protect UFP worlds, and oversaw the Fleet build-up, while Spock dealt with the day-to-day details.

 _Operation Sting_ had been remarkably successful. No Federations ships had been lost; three of the four Klingon ships that had attacked Canopus were destroyed, except for that of the commander, Klaath. He was currently being held under guard at StarBase 18 without the opportunity to kill himself; such shame was no doubt difficult for the proud Klingon to bear.

Kirk wasn't involved in the sparring that went on between the Federation president, Admiral Nogura, and K'irat. The recent situation had given Nogura the whip hand, as Jim like to say, but neither Human had any confidence that the Klingons would remain chastised for long.

The head of Fleet Intelligence, Mitre, warned that certain overtures had been made between the Klingons and the Romulans. The line of reasoning was logical. If the Federation could attack the Klingon worlds with impunity using the cloaking devices, what was to prevent them from doing the same to the Rom? The Organians had not interfered with the Federation response to the Klingon incursion, even though there had been quite significant number of casualties. Their silence no doubt indicated to the Klingons that they were a paper tiger, unwilling to truly exert themselves for peace.

McCoy had been found alive on the surface of Canopus Prime, though in critical condition from a disruptor bolt in the chest. He remained unconscious and under constant medical supervision post-surgery.

 

 

The hand holding his was soft and gentle, stroking fingers idly teasing the skin. This time when he opened his eyes there was no difficulty, and after a long few minutes, the details coalesced into a sick bay. It was similar in structure to the _Enterprise_ sick bay and he realized he was on a starship. He couldn't remember what ship it was. He was still very confused.

"Doctor McCoy?" a woman said, her voice oddly raspy. "Len?"

He turned his head, surprised at the amount of energy it took. "Dia?" he muttered.

There was a bandage around her throat, and given the way she held herself, perhaps some broken ribs, too. But she was not O'Dia; Slan looked down at him from a bruised face and haunted eyes. "Oh, it's so good to see you awake."

He looked around, noting that young Dar lay on another bed, looking very worn and weak, but alive. The rest of the beds held no one he knew.

"What in the blue tarnation happened?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"What do you remember?"

"Mmm, plague . . . Klingons . . . running . . . that's about it."

"Do you remember telling Klaath that Admiral Kirk was going to make him pay?"

"Sort of."

"He decided to kill us, except for three." She wouldn't meet his eyes.

The sinking sensation in his chest had nothing to do with his injuries. "But we got away, right? Somehow?"

"You, me, and Dar lived. The rest . . . didn't make it."

He heard her words through the hollow pounding of blood in his ears, and after a few seconds, understood what they meant. He just couldn't believe it at first. He had brought these people to learn, to understand what healing the sick truly meant. Not to be murdered. They were young, just kids some of them. He had brought them here, to a place of disease and death, able to do nothing to protect them from the variables of serving on a starship. They weren't trained to handle this, able to endure the rigors of war. . . .

"Dear God, what have I done?" he sobbed, tears streaming down his cheeks. He cried, and when he couldn't stop, Slan gestured to a nurse and sedated him. The familiar sensation of a hypospray being pressed to his shoulder did nothing to his grief. It only put it to sleep for a while, until he woke again.

The next day the ship's captain was sitting by his bedside, reading reports on his padd. He looked up when McCoy moved, and gave him a confident smile. "Glad to see you awake again, doctor," he said, rising and offering his hand. He assisted McCoy to a sitting position. "I'm Nathan Blunt, captain of the _Venable_. I think it might help us both if we had a little talk."

"Did Jim call you?" he muttered, angry and unable to control it.

"If you mean Admiral Kirk, then yes, he did. He's quite worried about you."

McCoy didn't reply. Even his vaunted Southern charm seemed to have left him.

"You've never lost so many, have you? Not of your own staff or crew?"

"None that I led into damned foolish danger, no," he agreed, pugnaciously, wanting to fight, wanting to strike out and hurt somebody, anybody, if it would make this sick feeling in his heart go away.

"Well, I don't think the Canopans would have agreed with you, doctor. They had nothing but the most effusive of praises for you. You helped rescue a civilization from the brink of utter destruction, you and your team. And they were your team, don't ever doubt that. From what Dar over there tells me, they looked up to you, depended on you, followed you no matter where you led. They knew you would do anything to keep them from harm."

The captain settled a hip on his bed, and rested a hand on his padd. "You should know that when we found you, your folks were all lying on top or around you, protecting you from the disruptor bolts with their bodies."

The tears started again; there seemed to be nothing he could do to stop them. His throat closed and he clasped his hands together in an attempt not to bawl.

"Now I don't know about you, but that tells me more about the type of man you are than any words possibly could."

"Didn't protect them," he could barely get out over the tightness in his chest. _O'Dia . . . poor darling._

"No. But in those last moments you let them know that their lives meant something: That they were healers, and couldn't stand by when others died. They didn't think the sacrifice was too great, and it would be small thanks to their memory and their lives if you did."

Blunt let him cry, resting his hand on McCoy's. After a while he said, "No one wants to be in command on the days when people die, doctor; oh, it's great when it's all braid and bands, but those aren't the days that count. Most days men like you stand up and say, "I'm going to save a life today." It may take years of study, hours of back-breaking labor over a surgery table, or decades of research, but your life is given to the alleviation of suffering, the ending of pain. You aren't meant to be a soldier; thrust as you were into brutal violence and swift death, you gave your people hope that Admiral Kirk would not let this stand."

He looked up. "He didn't, did he?"

Blunt gave him a feral smile. "I think you probably know him better than that. Klaath is in the brig on Starbase Eighteen; the Klingons are in confused retreat with a number of their outer worlds bandaging their wounds today. And you have two left of your team alive who need you to help them make sense of this."

McCoy let their faces parade through his mind's eye: Cilin, Fenn, and Daria, the Canopan doctors and nurses who had followed him into disaster, and his dearest O'Dia. Oh, his heart hurt in his chest. He looked up and looked at his remaining staff. Slan and Dar looked like frightened children at the moment, leaning close to one another and watching him with large, hollow gazes.

He sighed softly and gestured to them to come; within moments, all three of them were nestled on his bed, young heads cradled on his chest as they cried.

Captain Blunt left them alone then. He had done what he intended to do, what a doctor often did when the captain was busy protecting the ship. He had reminded McCoy that life was for the living and regrets for being alive had no place in it.

 

 

The _Venable's_ return was quietly done, her arrival at 0300 Moon Base time received by Gamma shift, and in minutes, she was efficiently brought to tether, a lovely bird brought down from flight. Her bright titanium hull showed evidence that she had been in a recent battle with dark scorches along her side, but her colors were flying in a light-show across her bow as she had come into the sector.

Jim Kirk stood and waited. Dressed in civilian clothes, he wasn't here as Admiral Kirk, only as Jim, friend to Leonard.

He waited, leaning against the bulkhead of the exterior gantry as crew began to disembark. Liberty was liberty no matter what time it was planet-side. The _Venable_ would only have a seventy-two-hour window with which to rest and repair, then she would return to her patrol. He nodded at those who recognized him, and spoke briefly with the few he recognized, but for the most part remained silent and still, jabbing his impatience with a hard finger to shut it down.

McCoy's hover chair finally exited the ship, slowly moving down the gantry. Even from here, the evidence of his grief and trauma were easy to see. He seemed smaller somehow, enveloped in the chair, his uniform too big for his frame. Beside him strode the last two of his medical team, Slan Fendell and Arend Dar, and Jim nodded at them as he stood up and walked to his friend. Bones' blue eyes were marred by pain, their depths hooded and dull, but his smile was real as he saw Jim, and a sense of relief seemed to pass over his face. He took McCoy's hand, and held it, hoping to convey some sense of his understanding of his anguish, and willingness to help him through it.

Bones swallowed and ducked his head as tears brightened his eyes.

Both doctors appraised Kirk, their young faces also showing evidence of recent warfare and comprehension of its senseless waste. The woman stepped forward and asked, "Sir. You'll take care of him?"

It wasn't the simple question that it sounded like, encompassing worry and regret and a touch of frustration; emotions Jim recognized were probably not directed at him. "Yes," he replied softly, letting her know in just one word that McCoy could not be in hands that would care for him better.

Fendell glanced back at the other doctor, their gazes speaking silently. The man nodded and she turned back to him. "Thank you, sir." Then she crouched beside Bones' chair, as did Dar.

"Are you sure? We can stay," she told him earnestly.

"You can come home with me, doctor," Dar added. "My mom is a mean cook and we have the room. New Orleans is a bee-yoo-tiful town," he wheedled softly.

"Now go on, you two. You don't need to be saddled with me, and Jim'll make sure I'm well taken care of." His Southern twang was in evidence, a sure indicator of the emotions he didn't let show otherwise. "But keep in touch. I expect to hear from you both regularly. Take your time and let yourselves _heal_ before you think of coming back to the program. Understood?"

They both smiled. "Understood, doctor," they chorused and stood. Giving Kirk another appraising glance, they left, looking back over their shoulder occasionally as they made their way into the terminal.

Jim hadn't let go of McCoy's hand, and knelt down next to him, their eyes meeting. There was too much to say, they both recognized at once, and this was not the place to do it in.

Silently, they left the _Venable_ behind. The hover chair was obviously required as they traversed the long distance from the ship to the shuttle, and then from the shuttle through the Earth-side terminal to his aircar and then to their new apartment.

Kirk had finally pulled rank, tossing more junior staff out of their plusher digs and co-opting a much larger apartment that had room for Spock's computers, Kirk's library, and a guest bedroom. Spock had been in charge of making it happen, and with typical Vulcan efficiency, had them packed, moved, unpacked, and resettled within the day. Today, in fact. This would be the first night they would be spending in their new home. As career Fleet, Kirk had never been focused on his decor much, but found that his lover was an aesthete and required calming and energetic spaces for optimum comfort.

As they arrived at the door of the new place, McCoy asked, "New digs?"

"I thought it was about time," Jim replied dryly. "Nogura's been on my back about it."

"Did he expect you to live like Stearns did, in that drafty mansion complete with his mother's ghost?"

Jim chuckled. "I wouldn't mind an Organian visit or two right now, given the circumstances."

The rooms were quiet, with soft lighting on. Jim took a moment to look around and liked what he saw. A large window to his right looked out onto the bridge and bay, a fireplace against the exterior wall lending some light and heat. A human version of Spock's firepot, he thought, and smiled. To the left was a dining area and kitchen. Past the living room was a corridor that separated the kitchen from the bedrooms. The master bedroom was at the rear of the hall, larger than the guest, which was closer to the bathing suite. Jim ducked in there and smiled when he saw the inset Jacuzzi next to the shower and the double sinks.

 _I could get used to this_ , he thought.

Beyond the dining area was a former pantry, which Spock was in the process of converting to an office and library for them. But the Vulcan was nowhere to be seen.

_Where are you?_

_On duty, th'y'la._

_At 0400? Unusual, isn't it? I'm not that difficult to work with._

Spock sent him a warm chuckle as a gift. _Not as a rule, no. You and Leonard will need time to speak. I have taken the liberty of placing you off-duty for tomorrow._

Jim considered that. While he wouldn't be at Ops, he would still know everything he needed to; neither Dreer nor Spock would hesitate to contact him in the event of any kind of emergency.

The true Klingon response to _Operation Sting_ was not yet known. Their ambassador had removed himself for a time from the Klingon Embassy on Embassy Row in San Francisco and was now ensconced on the warship _Targ_ , currently outside the Sol system, but with a security detail in the _U.S.S. Peony_ , a scout ship, off her port bow. It wouldn't do to give K'irat the idea that he was important enough to rate a starship as an escort. His innate superiority and arrogance needed no inflation. _Probably a good idea. Don't know if or when they'll take it into their heads to respond to our sting, but days off will be few and far between._ He smiled. _How am I supposed to sleep without you?_

Spock did the mental equivalent of clearing his throat, and Jim grinned. _Sorry, Spock. Did I distract you?_

 _The thought of you and a bed are sufficient, bond-mate,_ Spock warned.

"Talking to Spock?" Bones interrupted. "Tell him his friendly neighborhood doctor thinks he should be at home in bed."

Spock didn't need him to relay what Jim had heard. _He insists on treating me as though I were Human._

_No, Spock. He's telling you he missed you. A very human sentiment._

_Indeed. Sleep well, th'y'la._

_Never as good as with you, but I will try._

And then Spock's mind-voice was gone. "He's working so I can have the day off," Kirk replied to McCoy.

"Oh. You don't have to do that, Jim. I can go home--"

"Bones." He waited until McCoy looked at him. "We want you here, with us." He could feel the tension in his own face, the terrible emotions he had known when he had first learned of his friend's danger resurfacing, writ large on his features.

Bones watched him for a long moment, then nodded, but said nothing more.

"Let's get to bed. You must be exhausted."

McCoy wasn't the easiest patient; he was touchy, irritable, and self-conscious, but yielded to common sense when Jim began to help him undress and get into bed because he could only stand for short, awkward periods of time, and those were painful and drained him of all energy.

Because of the severity of the disruptor bolt attack, he would require more medical treatments to replace the fatty apron of his gut, graft major muscle tissue and their attached venous and arterial supply, followed by sustained physical therapy to gain the strength he needed so he could stand and walk.

Kirk had read all the medical reports from _Venable_ and what he hadn't understood, he'd had explained to him. At present, most of McCoy's internal organs were functioning, thanks to the surgery that had been done aboard ship. Add that to blood loss, trauma, shock and stress, and the doctor was as weak as a proverbial kitten.

Jim did his best not to react to the shocking sight of McCoy's chest and stomach. It looked like it had been carved out by an ice-cream scoop and left hollow. He couldn't imagine what it felt like to be missing such a large portion of your body. Attached to the chair was a thick medical kit, its hyposprays already loaded. At Bones' direction, he handed him two, which the doctor deftly injected into his thigh and hip.

"Do I want to know?" Jim asked softly.

"Pain killer," he indicated one tube, "oxidizer and inflammatory inhibitor," he pointed to another. "You know I'm going to need a nurse for a while?"

"Already taken care of," Kirk asserted, sitting on the side of the queen-sized bed, and looking around the room to make sure his friend would be comfortable. It was large, which meant that the chair would be able to get in and out without much maneuvering. The bathroom was huge and architecturally set up in an open plan, with little separation between toilet and bathing areas. It was in sitting and standing up, and getting into and out of the chair that was the challenge right now. It was the chair's job to keep him upright, and give an assist to his ability to breathe. Beginning at 0600 McCoy would have a nurse for each shift, never being left alone. Brad Grant, McCoy's boss, had made his plans for Bones' recovery plain. If there were anything medical science could do for the irascible surgeon, then Grant would make sure it was added to his treatment.

As for the emotional toll, there was little Kirk could do but watch and wait. While it would probably be necessary for McCoy to see a specialist in trauma disorders, it would be better for him to make that decision and take that step, rather than having it foisted on him.

It didn't take long for Bones to fall asleep, though it was restless and he was chased throughout his dreams by dangers Kirk couldn't see, but could well imagine. Wondering if it would be easier if he could feel he wasn't by himself, Jim undressed and retrieved a pair of soft, short pants, and a light pullover shirt with no sleeves. The apartment was at the median temperature he and Spock had decided upon, though their bedroom was invariably warmer. Lying down, he smiled at the way Bones shoulder immediately bumped his, as though it had been looking for something. Once found, the doctor fell into a deeper sleep, and Jim, satisfied, followed.

He awoke to let the first nurse in at promptly 0600, a well-built man of African descent, whose cool, calm voice and impressive musculature advised Kirk that Brad Grant knew what he was doing when it came to personnel to work with Bones. Nurse Angaza had big, gentle hands and a smile that hinted at a wicked sense of humor. His voice held the slight lyric quality of the Swahili, which was his native tongue, though, like everyone on Earth, he also spoke Standard.

He showed him around the apartment before bringing him to McCoy, who was still soundly sleeping. "He didn't nod off until 0430 so I imagine he's tired."

"As are you, admiral," Angaza told him with a slight smile. "I will run a few simple checks on the doctor and his chair, but will not wake him. At this point in his convalescence, he needs medication and rest more than anything else."

Debating whether to go back to Bones' bed, his bed, go to the gym, or work, he was startled by a gruff voice that muttered, "For God's sake, go to sleep. You're a grouch without at least four hours. And Lord knows you need your beauty sleep."

"Well, thank you, doctor," Jim replied mildly, ignoring Angaza's soft chuckle at his expense. Nevertheless, he took the advice and went to sleep in his own bed until the wonderful scent of fresh-made coffee woke him.

 

 

Later that day, after a nap and a massage by the next shift nurse, McCoy was settled comfortably enough in his chair by the window overlooking the bay. Jim sat on the short bench along that wall and did the same.

"I miss her," McCoy finally said, broaching the subject that lay between them. "And I'm angry, so goddamned mad sometimes I feel like I can't hold it in, that it's going to come flying out and split me open right down the middle. After that, the grief wells up . . . and I want to scream and hit things in rage so deep I don't know where t'all comes from."

His 'Southern was coming out' as McCoy would say, and it spoke of emotions so strong he couldn't control them. Jim listened; there was little he could say that would ease the pain now. He could only be there as a sounding board, someone who listened and heard, much like Bones had so often done for him.

"When I think of those Klingons--"

The chair beeped in alarm, and the new nurse looked over at them from his position at the dining table. Nurse Garvey rose and walked over, adjusted something on the side of the hover chair, and gave McCoy a warning glance, but said nothing. He was a short, stocky, tough San Francisco native who had sharp brown eyes, a narrow chin, and gentle hands. Returning to his seat, he went back to reading his padd.

Bones gave him wide eyes. "I don't know about you, Jim, but that boy scares me."

Kirk chuckled. "I think Grant meant him to."

"He's certainly mean-looking for a nurse. Couldn't put him on a maternity or pediatric ward, that's for sure. Wouldn't mind having him on board for extra security, though." The smile on McCoy's face fell as he considered what he had said.

"Bones. I spanked the Klingons as hard as I dared."

"Oh, Jim-boy, I know you did. Captain Blunt was clear on that point, and pleased as punch about it, too." He hesitated, and then blurted, "It's just, I want to hit one of them and know that they felt it. Actually, I'd rather shoot them with one of their own damned disruptors and see how they like it." He lowered his voice. "But more than that . . . I just want my people back." He gave Kirk a measuring stare, face hollow and gaunt in vivid pain. "Was I wrong to have even brought them there? Was there anything else I could have done? That you would have done?"

Kirk blew out a breath. "How many times have I asked you the same questions, Bones? You can second-guess yourself until you're insane with doubt, and it won't change a damned thing. What I do know is this: The Klingon who killed your people? He has a brutal reputation, leaves bodies wherever he goes. He must have been ordered to keep a few Fleet people alive or he wouldn't have." He let that sink in.

"From the reports I received, his men just started shooting randomly, without identifying any of you, so you're not alive because of who you are to me, or your rank. For all intents and purposes, they tried to kill you too, which would only have left two left. So much for their plan to leave survivors."

"Or their education system. What about Canopus IV?"

Jim rubbed his chin. "It's bad, very bad. What part of the population wasn't killed in the plague, died during the occupation. But some survived; enough, that with an infusion of assistance from the Federation, they can go on and rebuild. Their leader, a young male, Aslandi of Omptir, sounds like he's smart enough to know that they are going to have a hard road ahead and is demanding aid and Fleet security while they do it."

"He is smart. I met him during the plague and was able to work with him in the following months." He pondered the news for a few minutes. "It would be good to go back and see what they've made of themselves in fifty years or so. What about the Klingons?"

"That's a good question, doctor, and one I don't have an answer to yet."

"And that means what, exactly?"

Jim lowered his voice. "I don't know which way they're going to jump."

"But if you had to make an educated guess?"

Jim couldn't look at him. "I can see three ways this could end: they ignore it by treating it like a war game."

"Which isn't likely."

"They could declare war in response."

"Or?"

"They could build an alliance with the Romulans, and then they both declare war."

"Well, that's a cheery thought," McCoy replied, but his expression was grim. "And if you were the Klingons?"

"If I were the Klingon leadership?" He thought about that for quite a while before he answered, considering ramifications, various tactics, surefire strategies on their part and frowned, not liking the results. He looked out over the peaceful bay, seeing it in flames, devastated by war, then replied in a whisper, "I would wipe Star Fleet and the Federation from the universe while I had the tactical superiority in ship numbers and strength to do it."

"Damn it. That's what I thought you'd say."


	10. Chapter 10

Peter Kirk sat quietly in the back of the Orientation class, listening intently, taking in every word the instructor said. It had been a long and bumpy road from Iowa to San Francisco, but he had finally arrived. He hadn't been able to join a freshman class in September because he hadn't been eighteen yet, but now it was January, and he was here.

It was just as well he hadn't been old enough; he hadn't wanted to leave the farm when Gran had been so sick just a short time ago. But she was more than back on her feet and became highly irritated in the way only Gran could whenever it was suggested she slow down or take it easy.

"You had better stop fussing at me," she'd snap, bright eyes glaring at him. The differences in their height only made him chuckle whenever she'd read him the riot act. At 6' 4" he was almost a foot taller than she was, not that the disparity prevented her from nailing his butt with an antique wooden ruler when she was mad. He had obligingly cringed, and they both laughed, but he wouldn't forget the scare of nearly losing her all too soon.

She had been furious when he had first mentioned Flight Academy, which was the prep-school for Starfleet Academy itself. It had taken days for her to calm down; over time Gran realized that he wasn't going to let it go, and she became accustomed to the fact that he was leaving Iowa and going to San Francisco after Christmas. She still called it Christmas, even though it had been re-christened the Winter Solstice for decades now.

He had begged and pleaded that she not tell Uncle Jim about his plans until they were in place. He didn't want to be given the lecture he knew he'd get: that space was dangerous; Fleet training was difficult and only a few made it; he was young and smart, he had options. . . . He knew what his uncle would say. Besides, he could hate Flight and want to go somewhere else, which would possibly take him out of Academy training in the future. He'd spent all his time with Earth languages, and now they bored the blood out of him. He wanted a challenge, something new, different.

Thankfully, Gran had understood his need to stand on his own in this. He had managed to wangle a full scholarship for Flight because of his academic standing and linguistics ability--not on his last name, he hoped--but there were no certainties there.

He was so excited he could barely sit still. His duffle bag with his name stenciled on the side was on the floor at his feet, just like the eight hundred others in the audience around him. They were seated in a large lecture hall, and the man giving the speech was the Dean of Freshmen.

"If you look around today, you will see 799 other students. By the usual attrition rate, in June you will see 50 less, and so on, until when this class graduates there will be 430 or so students who will go on to the Academy."

Peter blew out a breath, but he'd heard the statistics before. If Flight was tough, the Academy was much harder, and it paid for Fleet to winnow out the bright but weak. The Dean was a lean Human, with silver-white hair, and a commanding presence. That was pretty much all he could see from his seat in the middle of the hall, alphabetically placed according to family name. He went on to remind them that they'd be in quads in the dorms, and that their class schedules had already been sent to their padds. Anyone with issues with those schedules should see the Registrar.

Fighting, drinking synths, or alcohol on the premises, using any form of drug not registered with the medical office, being abusive to fellow students, and cheating in whatever form you think that means, will get you expelled." He paused for a long moment. "There are no second chances at Flight, except for severe illness. You will not get back here if you act up; keep that in mind when your wild sides come out and want to play. Go to town on weekends, but keep it out of the dorms. Is that understood?"

"YES, SIR!" they yelled back, already aware that to not respond to a direct question in that manner would mean pushups.

He had been previously issued his room assignment, and the names of his quad mates. Directions to food, health management, etc., had also been sent to him, along with the name of his senior mentor and his academic mentor. The senior would teach him the lay of the land, the best way to survive and even thrive in the competitive environment of Flight, while the academic mentor was an instructor, and would help him in the labyrinth of classes, grades, tutors, and specialties.

He was on the outside of the stream leaving the lecture hall when he felt a strong grip grasp his biceps and pull him aside. He turned to see Spock and his heart took a nosedive into his boots. _Is Uncle Jim pulling me out? Can he do that?_

"Peter," Spock greeted soberly.

"Mr. Spock. I can explain--.”

The Vulcan raised a hand and he quieted. "I am not here to castigate you, Peter, only to wish you well on this endeavor."

"How did you find out I was here?"

"Your grandmother thought it best that someone knew besides herself. Rather than tell your uncle, which she was sworn not to do, she spoke with me."

"And you told Uncle Jim?"

"No, I have not; it is not my place to do so. You should already know that he will be very hurt if he learns of your presence from Dean Caddell."

Peter bit his lip. "I don't want to upset him, or you. I just want to try and see where it goes."

Spock inclined his head, and though his face held its usual impassiveness, there was a smile in his dark brown eyes. "He will understand that, Peter. But it must come from _you_. I have sent to your padd the location of our residence. You will be free this evening before classes begin tomorrow. I suggest you make the best use of your time between now and then. About 2000 hours, then?"

"Yes, sir," Peter replied steadily. "I'll be there."

Spock nodded and made his way out of the hallway and into the Flight school proper before he was lost from Peter's sight.

 _How did you think you'd be able to keep this a secret?_ he snapped at himself. _You're an idiot, that's how. Lucky it was Spock and not Uncle Jim arriving and telling you off._

He felt very young and foolish as he made his way to his quad to meet his dorm mates. And in another, he felt as though he were taking the first step to being the man he wanted to be.

 

 

Kirk was working on another set of reports for public consumption when Spock stepped in. "Just a second," he said, and sent them off to Nogura and the rest of the heads of department. Each held a small text insert that would advise the receivers of the fact that they were dummy reports, meant for PR and the media to gloss over and pick out whatever 'facts' they could.

Fleet build-up was progressing on schedule, much thanks to Spock's diligence, while Commander Halin dealt with all other operations issues. He considered that he had the best team possible; Halin and Dreer were phenomenal at their positions, and even though Halin professed to hate being land-bound as much as Kirk, she was a remarkably efficient administrator.

He was doing his best to only put in twelve-hour workdays, since anything longer might have alerted the ever-watchful Fleet media outlets that something serious was occurring. As it was, Kirk was doing his best to attend all sorts of media events and interviews in a convoluted attempt to give the impression that all was normal and that the galaxy was well under control. The media had done what they considered an expose of Spock's joining him in Ops, making it appear that Kirk was using his privileges as Admiral to move his lover into a greater position than he deserved. Some of the more scurrilous hinted that aliens would be taking all the plum spots in the senior ranks and that it had been a conspiracy. Oddly, the scandal had settled down after the Klingon invasion of Canopus IV.

Though Kirk went home, he didn't necessarily stop working. Spock had set up his computer room, and in so doing, made certain that they had communications equipment that would maintain the confidentiality required as the admiral contacted various other offices.

Even though he saw the department heads every morning at 0700, and his own at 0800, the evening calls made it possible to brainstorm outside of the group, especially of Nogura's folks. At that level, people rarely wanted to come out with a hair-brained idea that just might work without having spoken to their counterparts and confirmed their support.

Spock crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb, his way of letting Kirk know it was time to leave.

"Nag, nag, nag," he whispered under his breath, but knew his Vulcan heard it.

"Indeed. Captain Pike often accused me of being a 'mother hen'. But then Humans are so . . . delicate."

Jim chuckled, but didn't argue the point. Compared to some of the tougher races out there, Human were delicate. "Teaches us to be clever," he replied with a cagey smile.

Halin's arrival at his door meant that he was running late. She glared at him, bright blue eyes hitting him like a touch. "What? You're still here? Go home already!"

"Commander," he drawled, having become well used to her acid tongue.

"You put these intelligent plans in play and then don't follow them! Go home or the outlets will think there's something going on!"

"Don't know how much longer we can keep them from figuring it out, Halin," Kirk commented. "The Klingons are becoming more restless every day. Their ambassador never returned to Earth after the Canopan occupation was overthrown, and the Romulans are now in constant communication with the Empire, no doubt planning their strategy."

"For all we know, they're comparing shopping lists, and haven't even gotten to the point of strategy. Besides, how long could they manage to trust each other? Klingons are brutes, but sharp, and Romulans are suspicious and lethal to everyone, including their allies."

"You are still of the opinion that their alliance will either not begin or will break down soon after?" Spock asked.

"I am. If you put a Klingon and a Romulan in a beaker, break their particles down and stir them up, what do you get? An Andorian with muscles. Sneaky, dangerous certainly, but hesitant to fight unless they know they'll win."

"I hope you're right, Commander." Jim reached into his desk and withdrew a small box. "Oh, and before I forget . . . Commander Halin, for the excellent performance of your duties during time of crisis and for making sure I don't tear my hair out in frustration from all the red tape in Fleet, you are now promoted to captain. Your formal swearing-in will take place tomorrow. Congratulations."

She stared at him a moment before coming forward to take the pips that would mark her new rank. Her long fingers curled around the box in apparent stunned surprise. "Sir?"

"You deserve it, Halin, and in many ways, it's long overdue," he said softly. "I can't imagine trying to run this place without you and Dreer. Your patience, intelligence, and wit have made a trying period that much easier to deal with. And the fact that you don't hesitate to call me out on a plan that is unworkable has saved everyone a lot of time and effort."

She gawked at him for a long moment, and then smiled. "Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome. Now get out here, and let me go home!"

"Yes, sir!"

Spock congratulated her quietly while Kirk put together the work he wanted to take to the apartment. He did most of his report writing there, and it was a tiresome business, made better by having his Vulcan within touching distance.

Bones was out for the evening with Brad Grant, accompanied by a vigilant night nurse; he'd mentioned it that morning and the apartment was correspondingly empty.

Jim was barely in the door and considering what to have for dinner, when they had a visitor. Peter walked in, ducking slightly to enter, and smiled at Spock. But it wasn't the happy smile on his face that caught Jim's attention; it was the Flight school grey uniform with relevant insignia that he wore with such apparent satisfaction that it completely took his breath away. When Jim came forward a few moments later to shake Peter's hand, and then hug him, he was still astonished.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked softly. "I had no idea you had applied. What did Mom say?"

Peter smiled. "Before or after she grounded me for life?"

Jim laughed, remembering all too well what it was like to be a teenager who wanted to go to space. "Come on, sit down, tell me all about it."

"I'd been thinking about it for a while. I know how Gran feels about . . . you know, Fleet, and space, but I'm not going to be challenged by just Earth languages. I want to study the more exotic forms: the liquid-based, methane-breathing languages, even the ones we can't say because our tongues, mouths, and vocal abilities aren't designed for them. And it's not just the way it's spoken, it's the words, the philology, that I want to understand. Why do certain beings have forty words for sand, like the Vulcans? Why do Klingons have glottal kliks to indicate arousal or anger? Where did the Andor begin their gesture-based language and why? I have so many questions and I want to be the one to find the answers, not read about them in some journal while I'm teaching in some backwoods university on Earth."

Jim patted his knee to calm him down. It was apparently something Peter felt strongly about and was concerned his uncle would put the kaibosh on it somehow. "And your application?"

"I did it myself; well, with a little help from a teacher at school. I've talked to Matt about it until I was blue in the face, but he's adamant; he wants to stay at home, maintain the farm, and go to veterinary school. He won't budge."

"If that what he wants, Peter, I have no doubts that it will happen for him. He's a strong, determined kid who's gone through a lot. He needs the security that home and Earth can provide for him."

"I know. I get it. You'd think I'd be the same way after . . . but I'm not." He hesitated, glanced at Spock, and then asked, "Are you mad?"

Jim considered that. "Not mad, no. Disappointed, perhaps, that you felt you needed to keep this from me until it was a done deal. I _was_ that kid not so long ago, who left home to go to Flight against Mom's wishes, knowing that Dad had died on a starship, and that your father rarely came home. She was furious with me, so angry that we didn't talk until the day I graduated the Academy."

"Eight years? You and Gran didn't talk for eight years?"

"That's right. And if not for Admiral Nogura picking her up bodily and dragging her to San Francisco with a detachment of security officers, she wouldn't have been there then, either."

His eyes widened. "She must've been _maaaad_."

"He said so; said she called him names even now he won't repeat. But when she saw me . . . she burst into tears, furious that she'd let so much time pass us by." Jim looked at Spock, remembering how good that day had felt, for so many reasons. "Mom hugged me so hard she left bruises and cried all over me. I was so glad to see her, I can't even begin to tell you."

"That must have been hard, knowing she was upset but wouldn't talk to you."

"At first, it was. Then I got mad, so we were mad at each other. But it all evaporated that day and we became closer than ever." He looked at Peter and clapped him on the shoulder. "My point is that I'll support you in whatever you want to do; just, talk to me. Tell me. I can't help if I don't know."

"I believe that Peter wished to do this on his own, to prove that he didn't need your aid in order to get into Flight," Spock added.

"I hoped that would be the case, but being realistic, I know that our name probably made it that much easier for me to push aside other qualified candidates."

"There have to be thousands, tens of thousands, of Kirks, Peter."

"Yeah, probably, but how many come from Iowa?"

Jim grimaced and didn't need the expression on Spock's face to advise him Peter was probably right. "There's only one thing to do then."

"What's that?"

The admiral sat up and straightened his uniform shirt. "Prove your worth isn't in a name, a rank, or a race, but in the man himself."

Peter slow smile turned into a grin as he considered his words. "I can do that, Uncle Jim. I know I can."

"We have no doubts that you will make an inspiring impression on your teachers and other students, Peter," Spock added. "If you are ever in need of assistance, though, we are available to you at any time."

"I know you both are really busy; I didn't want to bother you."

"You are not a bother."

"Except when you don't call, write, or tell us what's going on," Jim added with a teasing smile. "I think an extra-special dinner at Faucetti's is in order. What do you say, Spock?"

"I say that we must be quick. Mr. Kirk has a ten p.m. curfew."

Jim grimaced, and hustled them all out the door. But before they left, Peter turned to him. "Thanks, Uncle Jim. For everything." He leaned down to give him an awkward hug, and held on for just that extra moment longer that conveyed his feelings far more than words could.

 

 

Having enjoyed a good dinner and a walk before dropping Peter back to his dorm in sufficient time, Kirk was tired when he arrived home, but not yet ready to sleep. Restless for no reason he could particularly name, he wandered around the new apartment and wondered when Bones would get in. For a moment, he let himself feel like a mother hen with one chick and then dismissed it. McCoy would be safe in Grant's hands, and they probably had a lot to chew on.

While Bones wasn't emotionally ready to go back to work, there was nothing wrong with his mind. It would do him good to talk to Grant about his plans for his department, Medical-Surgical Training for Space Based Missions, which were in the not-so-able hands of a few administrators McCoy didn't particularly care for. Jim thought that was all to the good; nothing riled Bones like incompetence, and privately Kirk had found too much fat in Fleet himself; he could only imagine how much there was in other departments.

It was still fairly early. While Spock went into the newly furnished computer room, Jim walked down the hall to their bedroom, and sat on the bed. He released a sigh and bent over to take off his boots.

_Th'y'la?_

_Hmm?_

_You are, as you term it, 'itchy'._

_A little bit. I'll settle down. Sorry to disturb you._

Spock was silent after that, and Jim continued to get undressed, wondering what to wear, what report he should work on, and how bored he was going to be by the time he got into bed. He rolled his head around on his neck, and moved his shoulders around to rid himself of the constant tension there.

He'd held back on the more delicious _fettucine alfredo_ that he preferred, going with an angel-hair _marinara_ instead, well aware that Bones had a mental file on his weight and how he should maintain it; ounces of cream and a chocolate gelato would put him well over that, and McCoy would verbally beat him up until he was back in trim. He considered that for a while; he couldn't imagine how the doctor could tell when he was a kilo over--it never showed, really. But Bones always knew, and the food was rarely worth the fight. He and Spock had maintained their usual workout schedule, the same as the one they had kept on-board ship. It prevented Jim from getting sloppy, and through it he could maintain the muscle mass he had worked so hard to gain. Every pound counted when you were going hand to hand with Vulcans, Klingons, and Romulans, and probably moreso now, when war was looming so darkly.

He blew out a breath and looked in the mirror. _Feeling your age, huh, Jim-boy?_ his sarcastic inner voice asked.

_Something like that. Peter's so young. . . ._

_Y_ _ou're not ancient, Kirk,_ it snapped back at him. _Look at that body! Stop wallowing._

_I'm NOT wallowing. I just feel. . . . I don't know. It's all nonsense. Don't mind me._

_I usually don't._

He was just about to reach into the closet to take out a shirt when warm hands closed over his shoulders. "You have been arguing with yourself again," Spock murmured, his lips at Jim's ear, just his breath enough to send tingles down Jim's spine as he was pulled against Spock's chest.

"I have," he admitted, leaning his head back, and accepting the nipping kisses along his neck.

"A discussion of vital importance?"

"Nothing that won't keep," Jim said softly, as Spock interlaced their fingers, tongue licking across the nape of his neck.

"Even better, _th'y'la_. For I have need of you."

His smile was blissful. "That's good. I always need you." He turned to help remove Spock's clothes and then lay down on their bed. "Would you get the lights?"

His Vulcan stared at him. "When I have an utterly beautiful bondmate to gaze upon? Or am I suddenly not pleasing to you?"

He chuckled, and waved him closer. "You're gorgeous, Spock; there's no wonder in my mind why a woman would want to buy you from your mother."

Spock returned a small smile as he crawled across the bed. "And yours? Was she preventing your debauchment at a young age?"

"Who knows? I don't remember."

"I shall have to ask when next I contact her."

Jim gasped, but whether it was from his words or the sudden weight of Spock full-length atop him, he wasn't sure. The heat of him was amazing, and it felt so good to be covered by his love, feeling it like a blanket around his heart. "Love you," he whispered.

"And I you," Spock replied, kissing him softly at first, before delving deeper inside his mouth. His Vulcan was much heavier than he looked and he kept most of his weight on his arms and knees. Jim loved the sensual feel of the thick silken fur that covered Spock's chest as it brushed against his own.

Their lovemaking was slow and gentle, giving them time to connect with one another on a more physical level, each seeming to need to show the other just how they were adored. When Spock finally slid into him, all controlled heat and need and love, Jim was ready, his legs resting on his lover's shoulders, heart pounding in his chest, organ so erect he wondered if he would be able to hold on. Spock was barely able to fill him completely before he began to move, his own hunger writ in his eyes, on the much-loved face, mouth open to catch his breath. For a moment he was still, and then Jim was inching across the mattress from the force of his thrusts, and had to press against the headboard with both hands to keep from slipping even further, leaving his cock completely neglected.

Not that it mattered; Spock kept nailing his prostate with every stroke and they climaxed at almost the same time, Jim moaning his way through it as it went on and on, suspending him in bliss. Too soon he fell back to Earth, to the arms of his Vulcan, and the practicality of wet-spots and showers.

"I am slowly learning your needs, _th'y'la_ ," Spock murmured against his hair before he slid from the bed.

"What of yours?"

_Beloved, do not be concerned. You are, and have been, all that I could ask for in a lover and mate. I am complete in you._

Jim smiled widely, he couldn't help it. _That is undoubtedly the best thing you have ever said to me. Thank you._

Spock gave him a slow blink. _I will never understand Humans._ But he yielded the slight twitch of his lips that meant he was smiling.

He could sense his mate's satisfaction radiate within the bond. _You fraud,_ Jim grumbled happily.

Spock raised an eyebrow in response, but didn't disagree any further than that. At the sound of McCoy's return to the apartment, he followed his lover into the shower, wanting more alone time with him before the world once again intruded.


	11. Chapter 11

A coded message that Spock received from the Vulcan Ambassador to the Federation was waiting in his electronic mail when he arrived to his office that morning. As usual, it was in his native language, but in a specific dialect that had died out on Vulcan in the pre-Reform days. His mother, a superior linguist, had resurrected its base form at Sarek's request and added a Tayagas dialect of Earth Tagalog, including its letter system, which Latinized the great many of the verb-forms so that I was now a jumble of symbols incomprehensible except to those who knew the languages involved.

 

_My son,_

_It is with a sense of dismay that I learned of Rahne Esira's behavior and actions while Dean of the Star Fleet Academy. I am left to wonder if it is possible to truly know Humans. By this I do not mean your mother or Admiral Kirk, but more the logic of their behavior, if any rationality at all maybe found there._

_While I worked with her, I never suspected such a deep and zealous core of xenobigotry and cannot help but ponder the cause of such a fracture within one who never exhibited any such behavior. Is it possible she is ill, outside of the obvious damage to her psyche that hatred of such magnitude may cause?_

_Such loathing is, as Vulcans, outside of our comprehension, as we do not allow ourselves such violent emotions. As we both know, however, that is a shallow conceit as evidenced by James' recent visit to Vulcan. It is undoubtedly a stain upon our honor to allow such a fiction to continue, and yet I am at a loss as how to deter it and maintain the integrity of our society. I will reflect upon it further._

_It has come to my attention that you, my son, were instrumental in removing this treacherous female from the ranks of the Academy structure. Is there a candidate you deem to be a judicious replacement? Considering your interaction with Esira, and the requirements of the office, your input, through indirect channels, would be considered with due merit._

_Your mother sends her 'love'. She is duly upset by Rahne Esira's disaffection, but not shocked by it. She is of the opinion that Rahne held deep feelings for me and my subsequent choice of mate led to the splintering of her logic. That is what her 'intuition' tells her, and I have been guided by it so often that I cannot, in all truth, ignore it now. Can you add any insight to the question?_

_Give my best regards to Admiral Kirk. On a personal note, I am content with his recent actions regarding the regrettable Klingon incursions, though I loathe the necessity of it and the consequent deaths of living beings. However, I am a rationalist; counseling of the parties involved would not have changed the Klingon response to Kirk's ascension to the desk of Star Fleet Operations. As a feint, their strategy was logical, though bloodthirsty. His reply, however passionate it may seem to us, was commendable and resulted in a detente of sorts. Logically, I estimate it unlikely that it will hold._

_Please care for yourselves in these turbulent times and know that I am ever your dutiful father,_

_Sarek enSkor uiSolkor_

_ShiKahr, Vulcan_

_40 Eridani A_

 

While pondering his response, Spock received a request to meet with Bader in his office at the Mathematics Department of the Academy. He replied that he would be there after his official duties ended at 1930 hours and advised his mate of his change in schedule by walking across the hall to his office.

Jim nodded when he told him. "What's going on?"

"I do not know for certain, but I believe his invitation is due to the media response regarding Dr. Esira's 'retirement'."

Jim sat back from his desk, which was covered in report chips, padds, and flimsies, and frowned. He wore his duties like a heavy collar around his neck and Spock did not like what he saw. His lover's beautiful gaze was shadowed by anxiety and the broad shoulders locked by tension. Kirk was becoming very weary of the pretense that that the Federation was not engaging in a Cold war with the Klingons, that it was remaining on a peaceful, exploratory footing rather than the more aggressive stance that had been chosen instead. But Nogura would not be moved from his conviction that a vague public response was more strategically implementable than an obvious buildup of crew, ships, and other resources.

"That was poorly handled," Jim opined softly. "Her public denunciation of Fleet policy regarding what she perceives as 'filthy alien races' is a PR nightmare that has been difficult to control." He sighed and ran his hands over his face. "I am very glad I don't have to deal with it. Did you know she was one of the leaders of _Humanity Alone!_?"

Spock considered the information. While he was not aware of Esira's affiliation with the radical confederation that had caused much public grief for the Federation, it was a logical step from her basic viewpoint that aliens did not belong on Earth or should be employed by any Earth companies, both public and private. But in doing so, Esira had made an error, for in the universal media she was being viewed as an unstable, reactionary isolationist who did not understand the ramifications of her political position. "Such hate will only hold attention for so long before it is undermined. Esira, for all her talents, is laboring under a misconception; her logic cannot hold and in time, will be exposed as specious."

"I hope you're right." He indicated the door with a toss of his head, and Spock obligingly stepped away from the sensor and allowed the panels to close behind him. "I've read your reports on the Dreadnought structural modifications with the new alloys Scott devised. They should be able to deal with anything the Klingons respond with."

"Indeed. Along with the previous alterations that have already been implemented in the design, the Dreadnought-class ships will yield a much lower energy signature for sensors to attempt to mask."

"Yes, but they'll be barges."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"Barges," Kirk repeated. "Tow-craft. Strong, but not quick. They'll wallow, and be all but immovable from their position. The much heavier skins and alloys for these ships will make their warp core far more stable than any other vessels currently out there. Add in the factor of their much-higher firepower and they are more than just formidable carriers, but rather space-bound castles for other ships to be protected by, without the need for synchronous planetary orbits like the starbases. The Constellation-class ships like _Enterprise_ , which were mainly designed for exploration, are sleeker, faster, powerful, but more vulnerable in a fight with multiple foes.

"However, if you put them together with the armored Outrigger-class personnel carriers and the Rover-class pilot ships, then add the Scout-class spy vessels for reconnaissance, equipped with the more advanced cloaking devices, and I think we can manage to keep the Klingons and Romulans from biting chunks out of the flanks of Federation-held territories by maintaining an efficient and damned near indomitable Fleet."

As Jim finished, a chagrined expression fell over his handsome features. "Sorry. It's not as though you don't know all of this already, and probably in more detail than I do."

Spock let that go. Kirk was under enormous pressure, and he worried over every nut and bolt in the assembly of the Dreadnought-class ships, needing them to be as invincible as he himself was. If the intelligence that Mitre received was to be believed, the Klingons and Romulans had recently made an alliance to obliterate the Federation, by destroying its only protection. Even at Star Fleet's prior strength such would have been neither an easy nor simple proposition. However, with the implementation of aggressive strategies and greater building of vessels, Kirk planned on it being made unviable. The output of materials and funds was immense, incalculable without further information, but the survival of the Federation and the safety of its dependent worlds was contingent upon the Fleet. And Kirk was the Fleet at this moment in time; Spock believed that it was the reason why the Organians had contacted him from their unusual position outside of the linear limitations of time and space.

"And our production timetable?" Kirk asked.

"Only the chief engineer is aware that the ships are being built in multiple locations and with altered timeframes. We have posited 15 years for the projected completion of a dozen Dreadnought-class vessels on all reports. However, as you know, the actual physical completion will be within 1.5 years, 9 months of which have already passed."

"Even Nogura doesn't know all the details," Kirk admitted. "He wants it done yesterday and he's not asking a great many questions about the 'how'."

"It is safer for the least number of people to be aware of this project."

"What are we calling it now?"

For the sake of the accountants (the 'beancounters' Jim called them), each month they used a different project name and accounting code for the expenses incurred, everything from styluses to wrenches, payment of labor, supplies, and misinformation, which Mitre handled with a division within Fleet PR. If they managed to pull it off, this would be the greatest secret buildup of arms, vessels, and crew ever implemented by a peacetime society.

"Project B324-6867D9874-54P58-798M79-86W4, otherwise known as B-32."

"B?"

"Bunkum 32," Spock explained, his tone indicating his dislike of the term.

"Bunkum?" Kirk asked, and then chuckled. "This was from Chief Engineer Rowley?"

"Yes, sir. He has an . . . atypical . . . sense of humor."

"He's Mr. Scott's mentor; from the British Conglomerate, specifically what was once known as Wales. Scotty's talked about him. His stories were very colorful."

"I remember them well. Mr. Scott defined him as 'contrary and arrogant'."

Kirk chuckled again. "Yes. If Scotty said it, you know it has to be true. How is he as an engineer?"

Spock didn't hesitate. "Brilliant. Ingenious. Even . . . inspired, in a very Human way."

"I sense a 'but' in there somewhere, Spock."

"I would infinitely prefer to work with Mr. Scott, who is his equal in all but _braggadocio_."

Kirk appeared to consider his remark. "Mr. Scott is refitting _Enterprise_. Your recommendation is to pull him off and set him to this, instead?"

"I do not; my preferences are immaterial. Mr. Rowley will do what is required, as will Mr. Scott. But Scott will do it out of love for the ship, while Mr. Rowley acts only out of love for himself. That is my single qualification."

"Ego is not a bad motivator, Spock."

"Perhaps."

Jim smirked. "You're letting your prejudices show, captain; your face says the superior Vulcan modality would not need ego to succeed."

Spock's eyebrow reached his hairline, and Kirk laughed. "I don't much care if he is as obnoxious as a Melkotian. He's getting the job done quietly, and with your invaluable organizational assistance, quickly and efficiently. Those are my priorities at the moment."

"Understood. Anything else?"

Kirk smiled. "Not at the moment."

At the appointed hour, Spock made his way to the Academy via shuttle, and then to the Mathematics department. The campus was ready once more to receive a new class of incoming cadets, and for a moment, he regretted the necessity of his current position at Operations.

 _Regret is illogical_ , Spock reflected. _I require greater time in reflection and meditation,_ he thought, as he ascended to Bader's office. The doors were open; the room was as disordered as it had always been, a peculiar illustration of chaos theory that appeared to work well for Turlofsky's fine intelligence and organizational ability. His native Earth plants were flourishing; a sure indicator of Bader's state of mind. The Human liked to speak Russian to the leafy inhabitants that hung all over his office in baskets of every size and make; Spock wondered if that was why his closest companion was Randile.

Bader was sitting at his desk, deeply engrossed in some equation on a padd. He appeared oddly younger than Spock remembered. He analyzed the discrepancy, and realized that it was due to Esira's removal as dean of the academy that had lightened the other man's previous aspect to one of satisfaction.

Spock settled himself in a chair before the desk and waited. It could be minutes or hours before Bader surfaced from his intense scrutiny of the work before him. He had always admired the mathematician's ability to fully concentrate on a problem to the exclusion of all else. And for all that his work space appeared to have just had an explosion that caused his work to fly to all four corners, his administrative abilities were remarkable in their timeliness and productivity. He was adept at dealing with aliens, as evidenced by his friendship with the Andrasian and Wryaleth, the truculent Turgarian, and his many Human colleagues as well.

As Spock waited, he pondered the meaning of Sarek's letter. While the surface significance was obvious, his adroit composition disclosed much more than simply what the words conveyed. While Sarek was perceptibly disturbed by Esira's treachery, he was subtly asking if his son had ever suffered under her repressed bias. His interest in her replacement indicated _Vulcan's_ concern over this evidence of prejudice; and where Vulcan led, others followed, so Sarek was not speaking only on his behalf. Silently, he was requesting information on those who would be amenable to further inculcation of the principles of IDIC, especially the 'infinite diversity' aspect of Star Fleet and its preponderance of Humans, which disturbed many in the Federation. Spock already knew that Sarek had never considered Rahne as a possible bondmate; he doubted that his father had known of her inherent instability, yet was not surprised that Amanda had realized beneath Esira's icy brilliance was a brittle, white-hot core of jealousy. Sarek now knew it to be true as well. Finally, Sarek had given his approval of what Star Fleet had done on Canopus IV; that meant that Vulcan was in line with Kirk's protective strategies, a situation he doubted his bondmate appreciated. For an outwardly peaceful people to give its sanction to what would undoubtedly amount to a war footing indicated that Vulcan and its allies could find no alternative means to achieve reconciliation, or did not choose to.

Spock could not presume to understand the motivations of Vulcan's political body, but T'Pau could be militant in her disapproval of the Federation's manipulation of its members to gain its goals. However, in this instance, even she must have realized that peace could only be maintained through strength of arms; not a decision she could convey through normal means. With that acknowledgement, Spock comprehended that the letter was not only for him, but for Kirk. Only his insight could tease out the many meanings behind the text, but Jim would understand the ramifications of those meanings.

"Spock! When did you get here?" Bader asked, his pewter eyes boring into him.

"Seven-point-five-eight minutes ago. You were working; I chose not to disturb you."

Bader waved a pudgy hand in the direction of the padd. "Black hole mass accretion equations from recent laser-telemetry; It'll keep. The paper isn't due for another month." He pushed the padd aside though his eyes remained upon it with a longing expression that Spock could empathize with. "What in the Nine Hells of Haggorth happened with Rahne? Is she really a leader of _Humanity Alone!_?" His voice rose. "Do those rascals at UNN have it correct--she's a xenobigot? Was she behind that bomb? The ethics complaint? Did she have it out for you for some reason?"

"Calm yourself, Bader, please," Spock requested, raising a hand as if to fend off an attack; such strong emotions after a long, demanding day were likely to give him a headache.

"I'm sorry, Spock." He waited, settling himself, and clasping his hands loosely on his belly. "What can you tell me?" he asked, much more softly.

He related what had occurred with Esira, her actions and motivations, and the current Fleet search for a replacement. Most of it was relatively public knowledge, other than the meeting Spock had with her in her office the day she 'retired', as she had publicly termed her dismissal from her position.

When Spock was finished, Turlofsky whistled quietly. "I knew that something was going on, but I never suspected it was at such a high level. The cadets are mostly oblivious; they're more focused on their immediate needs and study requirements than who is at what they mostly consider a figurehead position. But the faculty is in an uproar. Just today I caught Pinar and Wryaleth at loggerheads over some inconsequential matter of academic policy. He was being deliberately insulting and she was just about to wring his silly, scrawny neck for him when I stepped in. I think he was deliberately provoking her so she would crack him like an egg."

"I am certain that the search committee will complete their task as soon as feasible, Bader, but it is _imperative_ that the non-Human faculty and staff remain composed; no good result can be derived from responding to such divisive behavior."

"I think that Rahne's bigoted cronies are just trying to make trouble. Even Randile isn't immune; it received a complaint just yesterday."

"What kind of complaint?"

Bader snorted in irritation. "That he made a sexual suggestion to a student. A _Human_ student."

Spock considered for just a moment. "Aren't Andarasians asexual? They procreate by the budding of pod forms."

"Exactly. It's just a nuisance suit, but the old dear is so sensitive to even the most trivial slight that he remained at his home today, yellow from all the stress. Even his eyestalks are wilting," Turlofsky snarled in anger. "And I know that prick Berry put the kid up to it. Maybe he threatened him with failing or expulsion. And between Wryaleth giving Pinar a black eye, Rand being ill, your being transferred to Fleet Central . . . that doesn't leave a lot of alien influences on the cadets, which is exactly what Rahne would want. The bitch."

Spock nodded. "Perhaps. I will do what I can to alleviate your situation."

Bader eyes him suspiciously. "And what do you mean by that?"

"Just as I said. Prevent violence, advocate peaceful accord, and not react to men like Pinar and Berry."

"Easier said than done. What will you be doing while I'm fomenting peace?"

"Exposing Rahne's perfidity."

"Sounds like fun. Can I join in?"

The Vulcan looked at him, seeing all the positive characteristics that he would choose for the Dean of the Star Fleet Academy. "I would prefer you remain above the fray. Your character must remain untarnished."

"I don't mind a little dirt, Spock. Thoreau said, 'For every ten people who are clipping at the branches of evil, you're lucky to find one who's hacking at the roots'."

"Yes. And Gandhi said, 'Anger and intolerance are the enemies of correct understanding'." He left the remark of the famous Human pacifist and freedom fighter hanging in the air. "Leave this with me, Bader."

"All right, Spock. I will, for the moment at least, allow you to do whatever magic you think you can accomplish. What are you planning?"

He succinctly outlined his simple scheme, then asked, "Was there anything else you require?"

Turlofsky hesitated for only a moment. "Would you continue working with the Brain Trust? They are refusing to accept any other mentor; I think they're considering leaving the academy environs completely."

Spock's eyebrow rose in consternation. "That would be a great loss to Star Fleet. Each of them brings a considerable intellect and ingenuity to their solutions of difficult astrophysical and mathematical problems."

"I don't need to tell you that, though we have some really good teachers, few of them are at the same level with you in the sciences."

Spock felt no sense of pride in the acknowledgement. "Stronger recruitment of non-Human scientists and researchers is required to bring SFA to the equal of the VSA. It will take time and effort to pursue those who can bring the quality of studies up to that level. In the meantime, I shall continue to counsel the young cadets, in the hope that they will remain. It will have to be according to my availability, though, Bader, and in all likelihood, take place at my residence."

"I don't think they care if you're on the Moon Base; they'll come. It will also likely cause another ruckus with the anti-alien faction of the faculty, but as you are no longer a teacher, there's nothing they can do about it, though they'll talk about it plenty."

Spock nodded. "Their words are irrelevant. If that is all, I will take my leave."

Bader stood up. "Thank you, Spock. I appreciate what you have done, and will do, for both the academy and the cadets."

"No thanks are necessary, Bader." With a polite nod of his head, Spock left the office, mentally composing the letter he would send to his father that evening.

 

_My father:_

_I have enclosed my research materials regarding the subject of your recent letter. I would greatly appreciate your forwarding it to those who may find it of interest._

_I met recently with an excellent mathematician; his published papers regarding spatial anomalies are of great interest to me, and as an astrophysicist, no doubt to you as well. I have attached his most recent paper for your review._

_Mother, as is often the case, has great insight into the hearts and minds of others, no matter the species. In this regard she is more accurate than any statistician._

_My bondmate is greatly stressed by recent events, but is amenable to any overtures of peace, while simultaneously planning for conflict. Should hostilities commence, he and I will continue to strive for equitable resolution. It is my expectation that Vulcan would be in an excellent position to sue for greater involvement within Fleet assemblies at that time._

_I remain, always, your dutiful son,_

Spock niSarek uiSkor

San Francisco, Earth

Sol â€“ G2V

 

 

Less than three days later, a scandal broke over the revelation that Rahne Esira, as the former dean of the Star Fleet Academy, had acted to minimize recruitment of racial minorities, prevented publication of alien professors' work in reputable journals, blocked promotion of aliens to department heads, had been instrumental in the loss of many top-flight non-Human instructors through rigorous academic protocols that were not enforced for Humans, and false accusations of impropriety and mistreatment toward cadets, usually directed by her cadre of xenobigot associates with the collegia. Names were named and proof was given, including verbal and written statements made by former professors and students. Within hours, Esira's visibility as a reputable spokesperson for _Humanity Alone!_ was destroyed, her radical agenda dismissed.

A day later, Bader Turlofsky was unanimously nominated as Dean, and approved by the Star Fleet Academic Board, while Randile of Andarasia was affirmed as Assistant Dean. Fourteen associate professors, including heads of certain departments, resigned in protest.

The purge had begun.

Spock received an invitation to the installation of the new Dean, but his duties did not allow him to attend. He did receive a note of thanks from Bader, on old-fashioned, extremely expensive wood-pulp paper with a gold trim.

 

_My dear Spock,_

_I know that Vulcans believe a traditional thank-you to be illogical, as one does not thank the rational. However, as a less-than-perfect Human, I wish to extend my appreciation for your actions on behalf of the Academy and its faculty. We are indebted to you for many reasons, but your decision to act when others stood by is sufficient for this short note. It will not be forgotten that it was a non-Human who reminded us all of the meaning of humanity._

_Sincerely,_

_Bader_

 

_Bader Turlofsky, Ph.D._

_Dean_

_Star Fleet Academy_

_San Francisco, CA_

_Earth_


	12. Chapter 12

Jim did his best to stifle the yawn that tried to escape. It was 0645 Earth time, and Nogura's directors were meeting for their daily gathering in the CINC's office. They were in small groups of two or three, talking over recent news or information they didnâ€™t want to put over any electronic format. Kirk was over by the strategy board, making certain it sync'd with what he had just seen at SSO.

It was a Friday morning. Kirk was looking forward to getting some rest over the weekend, and a little quiet time with Spock and Bones. Peter was going to be by on Sunday too, after the first three intense months of his Flight school. Jim was curious to see how he was managing.

Just as the chron clicked to 0700, Nogura entered with a brisk, purposeful step. His habitual calm smile sat on his angular features, highlighted by blue-black hair that was recently beginning to show a trace of silver in its ebony depths.

When the CINC sat down at the head of the large black table, Jim settled at his right. Kirk gave a clipped, concise report of shipsâ€™ activities, complement, and status before discussing the new vessel building schedule and its progression. There were only three months left until the new Dreadnought class was completed; as far as anyone here knew, it was more like fourteen _years_ until they were expected. In order for that situation to remain secret, Kirk had to create a new set of strategies, tactics, and lines of attack in the event the Klingons did intend to wage a war.

The Klingon response to the Canopan situation had only been a strongly worded document that decried the Federation's bellicosity toward the normal, natural expansion of the Empire. Through informal channels they requested that Klaath be allowed to pass beyond in order to expiate the damage he had wrought between their two great empires, cleverly implying that he had not had any official orders for the attack and murder of Federation citizens and Star Fleet crew.

Nevertheless, all the directors agreed that it was imperative that the Fleet be prepared for war. Kirk not only had his usual duties of ordering Fleet movements--he also had to design a new defensive plan in the event of war, _and_ silently organize the creation of an entirely new class of vessel.

He finished the report, fielded a few questions, and listened to the next report with half an ear while checking messages on his padd. When he finally looked up, a woman had entered the room without anyone else there seeming to notice. She was stunningly beautiful, with long white hair, green eyes of an emerald color, skin a soft pink rose. The dress she wore was as white as her hair, a plain Grecian shift that silhouetted the soft curves beneath.

"I am known by my brethren as Ayla, James Kirk."

He stood up and slowly walked towards her. The report that Lefkowitz was giving on recent expenditures tapered off, but Jim was too absorbed to notice more than that. "Ayla," he greeted. "Why are you here? Has something happened?"

"Something is always happening, James Kirk. The galaxy is vast and fundamentally mutable." She looked away from him for a moment, her gaze unfocused, and then the green orbs returned, stunning him with the power in their depths. "Your timeline is in grave danger from the war that approaches on swift wings of greed, lust, and hostility. You must defend the Earth from this threat or all will be lost."

"Tell me how," Kirk pleaded, his hands outstretched.

Her eyes became gentle, as did her voice, speaking as to a child. "You have all that you require. Only be bold, steadfast, and you will yet win."

"Jim, who the hell are you talking to?" Kirk vaguely heard from Chiro.

"What must I do?" he asked again, needing specifics in order to defend his world and those who depended on him.

_Jim!_

"Trust in yourself, as the one you know as Ayelbourne does. I am his messenger; he has confidence that what you do in future will save countless lives and restore the peace of the galaxy." She reached out a hand and touched his cheek; it was an icy sensation. "In order to complete this charge, you will need time--decades, centuries, millennia--but it will be done. By my life, I give this to you."

"Jim, who's there?" Chiro asked, coming to his side. In what still felt like some sort of enchantment, she gave him a sad smile and evaporated like a fine mist. Kirk was released from the suspension she had kept him in. He let out a gasp as though he had been barely breathing, and then another. His heart was hammering in his chest, and slowly returned to its normal cadence.

 _JIM!_ Spock cried in his mind.

 _I'm all right,_ he reassured. _Just another visitation._

_I could feel her power through the bond; a glacial stroke of eternity encased in flesh._

_We'll talk about it later._

_Are you certain?_

_I'm fine. Got to go._

"Will you please tell me what the hell that was?" Nogura snapped, one hand on Jim's arm, supporting him. For a moment longer he felt dizzy, and then it vanished. A surge of strength flowed into him, and the exhaustion he had felt so dearly this morning was just . . . _gone_ , as if it had never been.

"I . . . an Organian," he murmured, head buzzing from the sudden clarity of his thoughts. "Another warning."

"What about this time?" the Intelligence director, Mitre, asked. His tone was casual, but his eyes were anything but.

"The impending war," he said, sliding into a chair. He felt stunned still; something was odd, different. . . .

"The Doom? The thing they've mentioned before?" Mitre asked, moving closer to him.

"No." Jim considered her message. "It sounded more like something was coming. That I had to protect the Earth."

"Sounds like the same message to me," Kitaza grumbled. "Can't they ever say anything plainly?"

"Apparently not. Jim, are you all right? You seem badly shaken," Nogura asked.

"The Organians have never touched me before," he admitted, brushing a hand over his face, and then straightening his back. "I'm fine. We should get back to work."

"Can you tell us anything more?" the Intelligence director asked. "What exactly did she say?"

Kirk considered the question, but the message Ayla had conveyed was dissolving from his memory much as her body had. "I don't remember."

"Then what was she here for, if not to give you some information?"

He tried, but the answers just would not come. "I can't tell you. I just don't remember."

Mitre threw up his small hands and began to curse sulfurously. Nogura glared at them both, and then shrugged. "Perhaps they implanted information you will need."

"Who knows?" Jim replied, all at once irritated by the ambiguity of the Organian warnings. "Let's get back to doing something we know how to do."

 

 

Spock was waiting when he returned to his office, and they went to the Vulcan's space instead since there was no privacy to be had in Kirk's, with its glass walls overlooking Ops.

The Vulcan's large hands and strong fingers gripped his mate's shoulders as his brow furrowed and the expressive eyebrows canted in dismay and alarm. "Are you well?"

Jim shook his head. "I'm not really sure. I feel . . . different, but I can't put my finger on why. You saw her, in my mind, when it happened. Do you remember it?"

"No. The memory faded from my thoughts as quickly as it did yours. What I cannot understand is _why_? Why appear if we were only to forget?"

"Their way of making certain the timeline isn't affected?" Jim hazarded. "I don't know, and I'm angry that they're playing with us! Don't we have enough to deal with, without visits from an Organian that never gives us anything useful?"

Spock released him, stroking softly over the velour shirt sleeves in a calming motion. "I have never been compelled to forget before. I was not even aware that it was possible for a Vulcan to be so coerced. And through the bond?" he shook his head. "I find it extremely offensive that they have invaded our thoughts in this manner; to intrude upon a personal link that is private and priceless. I had not thought them capable of such behavior to their allies."

"We aren't allied with the Organians, Spock," Kirk reasoned. "We're foot soldiers; an arrow they have shot into the darkness of space. They need what we can do, the violent means we will inevitably employ towards a greater peace, but they don't have to like it." He frowned. "It's like using a housecat to rid your home of mice. You may or may not like the cat, but you don't respect it as a being, only as a tool. We're the cat. They're the homeowner. It's that simple."

The Vulcan blinked at him. "A cogent, rational, theory. I can see no flaw in your logic."

Jim gave him a smile. "Thank you. Now we have a staff meeting to get to."

If either of them felt a larger frisson of disquiet from the Organian female's touch, they let it pass in order to continue the heavy schedule of their day. That night, during dinner with McCoy, the subject was opened once again.

"Are you tellin' me that the Organians reached through your metaphysical, completely immaterial bond, to touch Spock?"

McCoy was looking better and had re-gained some weight. He would be beginning his physical therapy within the week, and subsequent surgeries had been planned to reattach flesh and muscle, and implant regenerated, unscarred skin. His blue eyes shone from a near-healthy face and his voice was strong and determined.

"Yes," Spock replied, and Jim could feel the irritation he refused to let show.

"Well, those egg-suckin' dawgs!"

The Vulcan stared at him, and McCoy chuckled. "Spock, can we just admit that we don't know everything they do and leave it at that? They are . . . _gods_ for all intents and purposes; I suppose bewilderment is the closest we can come to an understanding their motivations and abilities. They probably can't recognize the moral relativity of our interactions compared to their own within the greater aspect of the galaxy and its varied timelines and probabilities."

Jim watched Spock's face clear, and his anger dissipate under the doctor's soft-voiced argument. "Both you and Jim have postulated that the Organians' superior aspect prevents their comprehension of the minute behaviors of the life-forms of this galaxy. And yet, they are acting to prevent the extermination of those forms."

"To protect their own asses, Spock. They can't absorb life-energy in a universe devoid of it."

"So their final incentive is only one of self-protection?"

McCoy nodded and Kirk couldn't help but agree with his assessment. "That's what it usually comes down to. Survival. Man or god, it doesn't matter; everyone wants to survive."

"So what did it feel like to be touched by one of them?" Bones asked, and Kirk remembered the frigid touch of Ayla's hand, the sensation of every fiber of his being turned to frost, like the deepest reaches of space . . . .

Spock caught his hand, mahogany eyes alarmed. "Do not focus there, Jim. I cannot explain why, but this is dangerous. Something between us has changed; I do not know what, but it has. We are different now."

McCoy glanced at them both. "Bring me my tricorder, Spock," he growled, and the Vulcan dutifully rose and brought it to him. It whirred over their bodies and coughed once or twice. The doctor read the results and ran the scans again.

"What?" Jim asked. "Is Spock right?"

"Other than the fact that you've lost five pounds since your last physical, Jim, and Spock is healthier than my uncle Lem's pet hippo, you're the same as you were a year ago; can't find a damned thing wrong with either of you. If you were looking for a result to prove your position, I can't help you. There's been no obvious change."

Kirk dismissed the incident from his mind, and deftly turned the subject to McCoy's recovery.

But the memory of Ayla's touch would not be so easily erased.

 

 

Sarek's arrival on Earth the following week coincided with the formal announcement of war by the Klingon High Command of Klinzhai to the Federation President at the Palais de la Concorde in Paris.

The President, Panan Norr, in turn, made the appropriate calls to the Federal Council in the Presidio and then to Admiral Nogura at Star Fleet Headquarters at Fort Baker, San Francisco, who duly advised his Director of Operations, Admiral Kirk.

The procedure for replying to a statement of war was incongruously simple. The President was required to notify the Federation Council 48 hours prior to committing armed forces to military action. The Federal Council had to announce a joint resolution to wage war on the Klingon aggressor, and Norr would then make a verbal speech, including an absolute declaration of war. Star Fleet was advised and by that evening major tactical plans put into effect. SSO was on lock-down; anyone who wasn't required to work at Fort Baker was refused access; all tours stopped, and meetings that were not war-based were removed off-site. All that went through without any difficulty; this particular Klingon response had been expected since the Canopan situation, and therefore no one was in any stir about it. The paper-pushers at the Federation went through the formalities with admirable aplomb and efficiency. All Klingon ships and personnel, and any citizens of the Empire were required to leave Federation space within 48 hours or be subject to immediate detention.

Twelve standard hours later, at midnight Earth time, the Star Empire of Romulus also declared war. A similar routine followed, but as this was as midnight, a lot of people were rousted out of bed, including Kirk and Spock. By 0600 hours, the military arm of the United Federation of Planets was involved in a galactic war on two fronts, an unenviable position for any rational being to contemplate.

But Jim Kirk was not the sort of man to wait for disaster to strike. He considered that if he were the Klingon High Command he would want an ally to aide them in destroying a dangerous adversary who have proven resilient and enduring. The subsequent ownership of the planets formerly under UFP protection was a prize that could be easily split between them.

Or not. It was a gamble as to which would renege on the treaties that bound them first, but Kirk couldn't wait for that to happen. He had to deal with the fact that he only had so many ships and crews, experienced captains, and space to maneuver, but he had billions of beings to protect. The fleet would be spread too thinly to do more than maintain their position, yet made few inroads into their enemy's territories. To that end, they would need help.

Sarek's arrival was unexpected; he had made no public plans to travel to Earth, and arrived at their door very late one evening, clad in a dark cloak that hid his face from casual view. No doubt the security officers at the entrance of the apartment complex had stopped, but not detained, him.

The Vulcan ambassador wore a grave expression, which lightened considerably when he saw his son. Their greeting was as warm as they ever became with Vulcans, but Jim could feel Spock's pleasure at his father's company.

They settled around the fireplace; the weather had turned cool since the beginning of fall, and its warmth was welcome. Sarek raised his hands to the heat. He wore a suit of dark grey, cut to add breadth to his shoulders. Though not old as Vulcans went, he was showing lines of age in his face, and gentle hints of snow in his hair.

"No doubt you wonder at my arrival," he began. "The declarations of war have alarmed my people, and I have been entreated to come here and ask your intentions."

Kirk sat down on a chair opposite the ambassador, aware that Spock was leaning against the stone of the fireplace to his left. He was tense; whatever happened now would have ramifications they would all have to live with. "My intentions?" Jim repeated softly, but with resolve. "I intend to do what I can to prevent the destruction of the Federation."

"No matter how I run the simulations, I cannot determine a method of tactical strategy that would lend numerical superiority to the Fleet without greater assets than you now command."

Jim smiled. "You aren't a military strategist, Sarek. Numbers in war are not the only indicator of success. A number of other issues need to be taken into account--."

"I am aware of the possible methods you could use to win specific battles, but these will not avail you in confrontations with the greater densities of enemy vessels you are likely to encounter."

Unwilling to tip his hand or even lightly sketch possible strategies, Jim was silent.

Sarek nodded. "I do not censure you for your reserve, James. I, on the contrary, applaud it. However, I am here with a possible proposal of aid to the struggle we are faced with."

Kirk nodded. "And what would that be?"

"The Vulcan government is willing to . . . integrate six exploratory vessels into the current Fleet structure, specifically to patrol the Neutral Zone and oppose any Romulan incursion into Federation space. This particular operation would require the utmost in secrecy, as it would be embarrassing to the current government were word of this assistance to be made public. Though Vulcan is a member of the Federation, we ideologically cannot be seen as combatants or aggressors within this war."

"Clarify the ship class," Spock demanded and Jim could feel his intensity spike.

Sarek did not meet his gaze. "Similar to your own Constitution class vessels."

"Wait a minute," Jim said, shocked to his core. "Are you telling me that the Vulcans have been building ships of war?"

"I am not," the ambassador quickly replied. "These are exploratory vessels only, capable of deep space missions, though with weapons systems designed to protect the crew if necessary."

Jim sat back and considered the ramifications of what Sarek was telling him. For the Vulcans to have created ships of such size and weapons capability was an indicator that they did not believe themselves to be _safe_ within Federation jurisdiction. That was bad enough; but for the government to be willing to make this offer meant that they foresaw certain defeat for the Fleet if they did not act. Threatened both within and without, they had decided to assist in terminating the more dangerous of the two menaces they faced.

Chillingly logical. "And what would you ask in return?"

"Only your discretion."

Spock was quiet then, his thoughts his own, but Jim could feel his own surprise and a sense of tangible disappointment.

"I can't make a decision like this without discussing it with Admiral Nogura. You know that."

"I respect his judgment," Sarek agreed. "He is a above all a pragmatist and will see the logic in the acceptance of our offer."

"Perhaps. And what happens after we win? What will happen to those vessels then?"

"They will continue the exploration for which they were built."

"You lie exceptionally well, Ambassador," Kirk told him, being brutally honest himself. "Your people are alarmed by mine, sir, and have been since we first met. This, however, is the first time I believed that you felt yourselves threatened."

"The actions of a few have squandered the many positive effects Spock's work within Star Fleet may have engendered. In truth, James, I cannot say that my people are any less intolerant than your own." He sighed. "You and I can only work within the formal systems that our governments have created to achieve an equitable peace. It is a goal worth attaining."

Kirk hesitated and then said, "You have reason to doubt us, Sarek, but I won't contribute to your suspicion." He glanced at Spock and saw his slight nod. "At my direction, the Fleet has been building a new class of warship. The Organian Hierarchy has foreseen some doom overtake us in the future; if Star Fleet falls, the Federation will follow. A great many sentient beings will die, and this universe will become a graveyard for millennia."

Sarek sat quietly and thought in silence for a long while, his hands clasped together, his gaze distant. "We learned of your operation, Kirk, many months ago."

Jim gasped. "How?"

"Through channels I will not divulge." He remained stony-faced. "We had believed them just another example of your innate Human need to express yourselves through violence. The actions of the Organians, and any warnings they may have made, were never mentioned. Therefore, the ongoing xenobigotry and the extension of the military arm of the UFP alarmed my government. We acted only in self-defense."

Jim remembered the conversation he had with Spock and Bones about gods and self-preservation being a universal constant. It was more true than he had thought. "I will present it to Nogura in the best possible light, ambassador. He will probably see through the veil, though; you should be prepared for some penetrating questions. However, I do not see how we can refuse such a generous offer from a founding member of the Federation." He shrugged. "In the final analysis, I'm just a soldier; but you should know that I would give my life to protect any citizen of the UFP. It's one of the vows I swore when I became an officer, and I will uphold it with every ounce of my being."

Sarek gave a wan smile. "Not everyone is you, James."

"Indeed not," Spock agreed with a rush of warm affection through the bond. He turned to his father. "Where is Mother?"

"At our home. She does not travel as easily as she once did, and time was of the essence." He turned back to Kirk. "I have attempted to contact the Romulan government through official and non-official channels, but have received no reply. They will obviously not be easily dissuaded from their belligerent position."

"The Romulan worlds are resource poor. Even a few additional wealthy planets would add to their overall ability to feed and support their population."

"Yes. It was no doubt an easy decision to make. If the Klingon attack position fails, the Romulans will return behind the Zone, and Star Fleet is unlikely to follow. No doubt the UFP would prefer the current parameters of the Neutral Zone to remain, rather than take a war to Romulus, Remus, and the further reaches of the Alpha Quadrant."

The three men sat together for a while, but there was nothing more substantive to be said. Sarek departed soon after, to reside at the Embassy until Nogura gave his response.

Kirk wandered out to the balcony while Spock spoke with his father for a few minutes. The night was beautiful; the stars thick and deep in the midnight sky. Even the glare from the lights of San Francisco could not depreciate their beauty.

Spock wrapped his arms around him from behind, and Jim gratefully leaned into his strength. "For the first time in my life, I'm truly petrified. So much is riding on us. . . ."

"We are equal to the task ahead, Jim. I most sincerely believe that. I believe in you as does my father, Admiral Nogura, the Organians, your mother, Peter, McCoy, your past crews, and countless others who have never even met you, yet have no doubts that you will do your best to keep the beasts of war from their homes. You can do no more and will accept no less."

"There won't be any easy fixes for this one, Spock. We're in a war of survival for our very way of life. It'll be a war of attrition, of cutting down their forces before they have a chance to do the same to ours. The Klingons will feed ships and manpower in the maw of Death like trees in a woodchipper, hoping to drown us with numbers. The Romulans will wage a war of slow erosion, with careful maneuvers and subtle feints, causing as much psychological damage as physical. Of the two, I don't know which is worse. I only know that I'll be riding a desk for it."

"Ahh. And that is the crux of the matter, is it not? To be left behind while others wage the fight is not what you were born for, that is true. But only you can make our enemies realize that the Federation will not stand by and allow innocents to be slaughtered and whole civilizations destroyed as the Klingons did on Canopus IV. You will stand firm and do what must be done. And I will stand with you."

"Always?" Jim asked, his voice tight. "This will get ugly, Spock; I will be responsible for so many deaths. . . ."

"No, _you_ will not. You did not ask for this war, but you will end it as soon as possible. You will feel the deaths of the men and women under your command, and it will only engender the fierce warrior within you to fight back, to yield nothing. I am content with that."

"The Organians believe that this war will result in an eternal peace between our civilizations. I hope they are right."

"As do I, my _th'y'la_." Spock's arms tightened around him. "But whatever comes, we will be together."

They stood together, watching the stars twinkle above them, the city lights reflecting the resolution on Kirk's face. For him, there was no other option: They would not fail.

 


End file.
